iiwiiiiimiii 


CHARLES  BATTELL  LOOMIS 


LIBRARY 

iNiviR 
§AN 


10 


JUST  IRISH 


LISMORE  CASTLE 


JUST    IRISH 


Author  of  "Cheerful  Americans,"  "A  Bath  in  an 

English  Tub,"  "A  Holiday  Touch" 

"The  Knack  of  It,"  "Little 

Maude's  Mamma," 

Etc.,  Etc., 

With  many  illustrations  from  photographs 
by  the  Author. 


BOSTON 

RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

THE  GORHAM  PRESS 
19U 


Copyright  1909  and  1910  by  Richard  G.  Badger 
All  rights  reserved 


The  Gorham  Press,  Boston 


Dedicated 

to 
my  first  friends 

in 

Ireland, 
the  Todds  of  'Derry 


PREFACE 

THE  first  edition  of  this  book  was 
printed  before  I  had  thought  to 
write  a  preface. 

Now,  my  readers  may  not  care 
for  a  preface,  but  as  a  writer  I  do  not 
feel  that  a  book  is  completed  until  the 
author  has  said  a  word  or  two. 

You  don't  hand  a  man  a  glass  of  wine 
or  even  an  innocuous  apple  in  silence: 
you  say,  "  Here's  looking  at  you,"  or, 
"  Have  an  apple  ?  "  and  the  recipient 
says,  "  Thanks,  I  don't  care  if  I  do,  '  or, 
"Thanks,  I  don't  eat  apples."  In  either 
case  you  have  done  what  you  expected 
of  yourself,  and  that,  let  me  tell  you,  is 
no  small  satisfaction. 

So  now  that  my  publisher  has  thought 
it  worth  while  to  get  out  an  illustrated 
edition  of  this  unpretentious  record  of 
pleasant  (though  rainy)  days  in  Ireland, 
it  is  my  pleasure  to  say  to  all  who  may 
be  about  to  pick  it  up,  "  Don't  be  afraid 
of  it  —  it  won't  hurt  you.  It  was  written 
by  a  Protestant,  but  while  he  was  in 
Ireland  his  only  thought  was  that  God 


was  good  to  give  him  such  a  pleasant 
time  and  to  make  people  so  well  disposed 
toward  him.  It  was  written  by  a  man 
without  a  drop  of  Irish  blood  in  his 
veins  (as  far  as  he  knows),  but  he  felt 
that  he  was  among  his  brothers  in  race, 
because  their  ideas  so  chimed  in  with 
his,  and  every  one  made  him  so  com- 
fortable." 

This  is  a  good  opportunity  to  thank 
those  of  Irish  birth  or  extraction  who  in 
their  papers  and  magazines  said  such 
nice  things  about  the  book. 

The  pictures,  all  snap  shots,  were 
taken  by  me,  and  even  the  Irish  atmo- 
sphere was  friendly  to  my  purpose,  and 
gave  me  considerable  success.  A  pleas- 
anter  five  weeks  of  travel  I  never  had, 
and  'if  you  who  read  this  have  never 
visited  Ireland,  don't  get  too  old  before 
doing  so.  And  if  you  do  visit  it  give 
yourself  up  to  it,  and  you'll  have  a  good 
time. 

Here's  the  book  —  like  it  if  you  can, 
drop  it  if  you  don't.  Never  waste  time 
over  a  book  that  is  not  meant  for  you. 

CHARLES  BATTELL  LOOMIS. 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Lismore  Castle Frontispiece 

A  Real  Irish  Bull 16 

Government  Cottage,  Rent  a  Shil- 
ling a  Week 20 

Horses  in  County  Kerry 26 

To  the  Men  of  98 30 

Prosperity  in  Limerick 34 

Mackerel  Seller,  Bundoran,  Done- 
gal    38 

In  Donegal 42 

The  Bungalow  of  Seumas  McManus  50 

A  Sky  Line  at  Bundoran 52 

The  Rocks  at  Bundoran  on  the  West 

Coast    56 

Geese  in  Galway 64 

DublinBay 74 

A  Dublin  Ice  Cart 78 

O'ConnelPs  Monument,  Dublin ...  82 


On  the  Road  to  Lismore,  in  a  Rain 

Storm 86 

Milk  Wagon,  Mallow 92 

Green  Coat  Hospital,  Cork 102 

A  Bit  of  Killarney 106 

Street  in  Youghal 114 

Thatched  Cottage,  Wicklow 124 

Wicklow  Peasants 132 

Lost  in  his  Lunch,  Mallow,  County 

Kerry 140 

A  Side  Street,  Wexford 150 

Picturesque  Galway 156 

A  String  of  Fishermen,  Galway ....  160 

Waiting  for  the  Circus,  Galway.  .  .  164 

Gaelic  Sign,  Donegal 170 

Gone  to  America .  174 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


I.    A  Taste  of  Irish  Hospitality  15 

//.    Around  about  Lough  S willy  27 

III.  A  Joy ful  Day  in  Donegal  •  .  41 

IV.  The    Dull    Gray    Skies    of 

Ireland 52 

V.     The    Joys    of    Third-Class 

Travel 62 

VI.    A  Few  Irish  Stories        .      .  74 

VII.    Snapping  and  Tipping       .  83 
VIII.     Random  Remarks  on  Things 

Corkonian       ....  97 

IX.    A  Visit  to  Mount  Mellaray  108 

X.    A  Dinner  I  Didn't  Have      .  123 

XI.     What  Ireland  Wants       .      .  134 

XII.    A  Hunt  for  Irish  Fairies      .  143 

XIII.    In  Galway  with  a  Camera  156 

XIV.     The  New  Life  in  Ireland     .  167 


JUST  IRISH 


JUST  IRISH 


CHAPTER    I 

A  Taste  of  Irish  Hospitality 

IRISH  hospitality."  I  have  often 
heard  the  term  used,  but  I  did  not 
suppose  that  I  should  get  such  convinc- 
ing evidence  of  it  within  twelve  hours  of 
my  arrival  at  this  northern  port. 

This  is  to  be  a  straightforward  re- 
lation of  what  happened  to  some  half 
dozen  Americans,  strangers  to  each  other, 
a  week  ago,  and  strangers  to  all  Ireland 
upon  arrival. 

In  details  it  is  somewhat  unusual, 
but  in  spirit  I  am  sure  it  is  characteristic  of 
what  might  have  befallen  good  Americans 
in  any  one  of  the  four  provinces. 

To  be  dumped  into  the  tender  that 
came  down  the  Foyle  to  meet  the  Cale- 
donia at  Moville  at  the  chilly  hour  of 
15 


16  JUST  IRISH 

two  in  the  morning  seemed  at  the  time 
a  hardship.  We  had  wanted  to  see  the 
green  hills  of  old  Ireland  and  here  were 
blackness  and  bleakness  and  crowded 
humanity. 

But  the  loading  process  was  long 
drawn  out,  and  when  at  last  we  began 
our  ascent  of  the  Foyle  there  were  in- 
dubitable symptoms  of  morning  in  the 
eastern  skies,  and  we  saw  that  our 
entrance  into  the  tender  was  like  the 
entrance  of  early  ones  into  a  theater 
before  the  lights  are  turned  up.  After 
a  while  the  curtain  is  lifted  and  the 
scenic  glories  are  revealed  to  eyes  that 
have  developed  a  proper  amount  of 
eagerness  and  receptivity. 

With  the  first  steps  of  day  a  young 
Irishman  returning  to  his  native  land 
mounted  a  seat  and  recited  an  apos- 
trophe, "  The  top  of  the  mornin'  to  ye," 
and  then  a  mist  lifting  suddenly,  Ireland, 
dewily  green  and  soft  and  fair,  lay  re- 
vealed before  our  appreciative  eyes. 


t 


A  REAL  IRISH  BULL 


M* 

i  I 

^    ^  4. 


JUST  IRISH  17 

The  sun,  when  he  really  began  his 
morning  brushwork,  painted  the  trees 
and  grasses  in  more  vivid  greens,  but 
there  was  a  suggestiveness  of  early  spring 
in  the  first  soft  tones  that  was  fully 
valued  by  eyes  that  had  been  used  to 
leaden  skies  for  more  than  half  the  days 
of  the  voyage. 

But  I  am  no  poet  to  paint  landscapes 
on  paper,  so  we  will  consider  ourselves 
landed  at  Londonderry  and  [  furnished 
with  a  few  hours  of  necessary  sleep,  and 
anxious  to  begin  our  adventures. 

Our  party  consisted  of  a  half  dozen 
whose  itineraries  were  to  run  in  paral- 
lels for  a  time.  There  were  four  ladies 
and  two  of  us  were  men.  One  of  the 
men  had  to  come  to  Ireland  on  business, 
and  he  found  he  had  awaiting  him  an 
invitation  to  lunch  that  day  with  a 
country  gentleman  with  whom  he  had 
corresponded  on  business  matters. 

As  the  one  least  strange  to  the  coun- 
try this  American  had  tendered  his  good 


18  JUST  IRISH 

offices,  American  fashion,  to  the  ladies 
who  would  be  traveling  without  male 
companions  after  we  left  them,  and  so  he 
dispatched  a  messenger  with  a  note  to 
the  effect  that  he  must  regretfully  decline, 
and  stating  his  reasons  for  so  doing. 

While  we  were  lunching  at  the  hotel 
a  return  note  came  to  him,  this  time 
from  the  good  man's  wife,  cordially 
asking  that  we  all  come  and  have  after- 
noon tea. 

Here  was  a  chance  to  see  an  Irish 
household  that  was  hailed  with  delight 
by  all,  a  delight  that  was  not  unappre- 
ciative  of  the  warmth  of  the  invitation. 

We  would  go  to  the  pleasant  coun- 
try house,  but  —  our  trunks  had  not 
come.  Would  our  traveler's  togs  worthily 
represent  our  country? 

But  our  friend  said,  "  Don't  let  clothes 
stand  between  us  and  this  thing.  I'm 
sure  this  lady  will  be  glad  to  welcome  us 
as  Americans,  and  for  my  part  I  never 
reflect  credit  on  my  tailor,  and  people 


JUST  IRISH  19 

never  clamor  for  his  address  when  they 
see  me.  As  for  you  ladies,  I'd  think 
any  tea  of  mine  honored  by  such  fetching 
gowns,  if  that's  the  proper  term.  I'm 
going  to  write  her  that  we're  coming 
just  as  we  are." 

So  he  sent  another  messenger  out 
into  the  country  -  -  telephones  seem  as 
scarce  as  snakes  here  —  saying,  well, 
he  used  a  good  assortment  of  words  and 
arranged  them  wrorthily. 

The  two  young  girls  of  the  party 
clamored  for  jaunting  cars,  and  so  two 
were  ordered  for  four  o'clock.  One  of 
them  had  red  cushions  and  was  as 
glittering  in  its  glass  and  gold  as  a 
circus  wagon. 

•-...  My  friend,  on  ordering  this  one,  said 
to  the  "  jarvey  "  (by  the  way,  they  call 
them  drivers  here  in  this  part  of  Ire- 
land, but  jarvey  has  always  seemed 
so  delightfully  Irish  that  I  prefer  to  stick 
to  it),/*  Get  another  car  as  nice  as  this." 

**  Sure,  there's  none  as  nice  as  this," 


20  JUST  IRISH 

said  he,  pride  forcing  the  confession, 
"  but  I'll  get  a  good  one." 

It  was  a  beautiful  day  except  for  the 
extreme  heat  —  and  yet  they  say  it  al- 
ways rains  in  Ireland.  I  felt  that  it 
must  be  exceptional,  and  said  to  the 
waiter  at  lunch,  "  I  suppose  it's  un- 
usual to  have  such  weather  as  this  ?  " 
"  Sure,  every  day  is  like  this,"  said  he 
with  patriotic  mendacity. 

When  the  jaunty  jaunting  cars  drew 
up  a  little  before  four  o'clock  there  were 
portentous  black  clouds  in  the  sky,  but 
the  jarvies  assured  us  that  they  were 
there  more  for  looks  than  anything  else  — 
that  there  might  be  a  matter  of  a  spit  or 
two,  but  that  we'd  have  a  fine  afternoon. 

So  we  mounted  the  sides  of  the  cars, 
and  holding  on  to  the  polished  rails, 
as  we  had  been  told  was  the  proper 
fashion,  we  set  out  bravely  on  our  way, 
little  wotting  what  a  wetting  all  Ire- 
land was  soon  to  have. 

In   a  half  hour  or  so  we  would  be 


GOVERNMENT  COTTAGE,  RENT  A  SHILLING  A  WEEK 


JUST  IRISH  21 

walking  over  Irish  lawns  and  admir- 
ing Irish  laces  as  they  decked  the  forms 
of  gaily  clad  femininity  gathered  for  so- 
ciability and  tea  alongside  the  rhododen- 
drons and  fuchsia  bushes. 

A  few  drops  of  rain  fell,  but  the  wind 
was  south  and  we  seemed  to  be  going 
east. 

"  Isn't  this  gay  ?  "  called  the  young 
girls,  as  we  jiggled  along  in  holiday 
mood.  Suddenly  a  silver  bolt  of  jag- 
ged lightning  cleft  the  sky  to  the  south, 
and  almost  instantaneously  a  peal  of 
thunder  that  sounded  as  if  it  had  been 
born  and  bred  on  Connecticut  hills,  so 
loud  was  it,  told  us  that  the  people  living 
to  the  south  of  us  were  going  to  get  wet. 

And  then  we  came  to  a  bend  in  the 
road  and  turned  south. 

"  Ah,  'twill  be  nothin',"  said  our  driver, 
in  answer  to  a  question. 

To  give  up  what  one  has  undertaken 
is  a  poor  way  of  playing  a  game  and  we 
were  all  for  going  on.  "  It's  not  so  far," 


22  JUST  IRISH 

said  the  jarvey,  but  this  was  a  sort  of 
truth  that  depended  on  what  he  was  com- 
paring the  distance  with.  It  was  not  so 
far  as  Dublin,  for  instance,  but  'twas  far 
enough  as  the  event  proved. 

We  put  on  our  cravenettes,  hoisted 
what  umbrellas  we  had,  and  gave  the 
blankets  an  extra  tucking  in  and  after 
that  —  the  deluge ! 

Bang,  kerrassh!  A  bolt  from  heaven 
followed  by  a  bolt  from  each  horse.  A 
sort  of  echo  as  it  were.  The  drivers 
reined  them  in  and  ours  started  to  seek 
shelter  under  a  tree. 

As  I  sometimes  read  the  newspapers 
when  at  home  I  told  our  driver  to  keep 
in  the  open. 

The  lightning  now  became  more  and 
more  frequent  and  was  so  close  that  we 
let  go  our  hold  on  the  brass  rails,  pre- 
ferring to  pitch  out  rather  than  act  as 
conductor  on  a  jaunting  car  —  such 
things  as  conductors  being  unknown 
anyway. 


JUST  IRISH  23 

It  was  terrifying,  and  to  add  to  my 
discomfort  I  found  I  was  sitting  in  a 
pool  of  water,  the  rain  having  an  Irish 
insinuatingness  about  it  that  was  irre- 
sistible. And  now,  just  to  show  us  what 
could  be  gotten  up  on  short  notice  for 
American  visitors,  it  began  to  hail  and  the 
wind  blew  it  in  long,  white,  slanting, 
winter-like  lines  across  the  air  and  into  our 
faces,  and  the  roads  having  become  little 
brooks,  the  horses  had  to  be  urged  to  the 
driver's  utmost  of  threats  and  cajolery. 

I  thought  of  that  waiter  who  had  told 
me  it  was  always  sunny  in  Ireland  and 
I  wished  him  out  in  the  pelting  storm. 

"  I've  not  seen  the  like  in  twinty  yairs, 
sirr,"  said  the  driver. 

To  go  back  was  to  get  the  storm  in 
fuller  fury,  for  the  wind  had  shifted. 
To  go  ahead  was  to  arrive  like  drowned 
rats,  but  we  were  anxious  for  shelter, 
and  still  the  driver  said,  "  It's  not  far," 
and  so  we  went  on.  I  have  been  in 
many  places  in  all  sorts  of  weathers,  but 


24  JUST  IRISH 

it  is  years  since  I've  been  out  in  such  a 
storm.  The  hailstones  were  not  as  large 
as  hen's  eggs,  but  they  were  as  large  as 
French  peas. 

There  was  not  a  dry  stitch  on  us  and 
the  red  of  the  gay  cushion  went  through 
to  my  skin.  My  cravenette  treacher- 
ously refused  to  let  the  water  depart  from 
me,  but  shed  it  on  the  wrong  side  — 
which  may  be  an  Irish  bull,  for  all  I 
know. 

"  Here  we  are  now,  sirr,"  said  our 
driver,  as  he  turned  in  at  a  beautiful  drive- 
way. A  winding  drive  of  a  minute  or 
two  and  we  arrived  like  wet  hens  —  all 
of  us  —  at  the  house  of  these  people  who 
had  never  heard  of  us  until  that  day. 

But  the  warmth  of  the  welcome  from 
our  host  and  hostess  who  came  out  to 
the  door  to  greet  us  made  us  not  only 
glad  we  had  come,  but  even  glad  we 
were  wet. 

Had  there  been  the  least  stiffness  we 
should  have  wished  the  storm  far  enough 


JUST  IRISH  25 

(and  indeed  all  Ireland  did  wish  it,  for  it 
turned  out  to  be  the  most  tremendous 
thunder  and  hailstorm  in  a  score  or  more 
of  years),  but  our  new  found  friends 
frankly  laughed  with  us  at  our  funny 
appearance,  and  we  were  hurried  off  to 
various  rooms  to  change  our  clothes. 

Our  protestations  of  regret  at  put- 
ting them  to  trouble  were  met  with  pro- 
testations of  delight  at  being  able  to  serve 
us,  and  as  my  host  brought  me  some  union 
garments  that  had  been  made  for  a  man 
of  three  times  my  size  and  I  wrapped  them 
round  and  round  me  until  they  were 
giddy,  I  was  glad  I  had  not  turned  back 
to  spend  a  damp  afternoon  in  a  lonely 
hotel. 

The  rest  of  the  party  fared  well  in 
getting  clothes  that  became  them,  but 
when  I  was  fully  dressed  I  looked  like 
Francis  Wilson  in  Erminie.  As  I  turned 
up  my  sleeves  and  triple  turned  up  my 
trousers  I  knew  I  would  be  good  for  a 
laugh  in  any  theater  in  Christendom. 


26  JUST  IRISH 

•y 

There  was  but  one  thing  to  do  —  go 
down  and  look  unconscious  of  my  mis- 
fit appearance.  It  would  never  do  to 
stay  in  my  room  through  a  mistaken 
sense  of  personal  dignity. 

So  I  went  down,  and  meeting  host  and 
hostess  and  my  compatriots,  a  laugh 
went  up  that  would  have  broken  the 
ice  in  a  Pittsburgh  millionaire's  drawing 
room. 

And  then  we  were  taken  to  the  tea- 
room and  in  a  few  minutes  I  forgot  that 
I  was  no  longer  the  glass  of  fashion  and 
the  mold  of  form,  for  I  was  made  to  feel 
that  I  was  just  a  friend  who  had  dropped 
in  (or,  perhaps,  dripped  in  would  be 
better),  and  when  a  couple  of  hours 
later  we  drove  home  through  the  soft 
Irish  verdure,  doubly  green  after  its 
rough  but  invigorating  bath,  we  all  felt 
that  Irish  hospitality  was  no  mere  trav- 
eler's tale,  but  a  thing  that  had  intensity 
and  not  a  little  emotion  in  it. 


HOUSES  IN  COUNTY  KERRY 


CHAPTER   II 

Around  about  Lough  S willy 

TO  a  tired  New  Yorker  who  has  six- 
teen days  at  his  disposal  I  would  re- 
commend a  day  on  Lough  Swilly  at  Rath- 
mullan.  It  is  separated  from  the  island 
of  Manhattan  by  little  else  than  the  Atlan- 
tic, and  every  one  knows  that  a  sea  voy- 
age is  good  for  a  wearied  man. 

Take  a  boat  for  Londonderry  from 
the  foot  of  Twenty-fourth  Street,  and  then 
for  the  mere  cost  of  a  shilling  (if  you 
travel  third  class,  and  that  is  the  way  to 
fall  in  with  characters)  you  will  be  rail- 
roaded and  ferried  to  Rathmullan,  where 
you'll  find  as  clean  an  inn  and  as  faithful 
service  as  heart  could  wish.  And  such 
scenery ! 

And  every  one  will  be  glad  to  see  you, 
because  you  are  from  America.  ("  Wel- 
27 


28  JUST  IRISH 

come  from  the  other  side,"  and  a  hearty 
hand  grip  from  leathery  hands.) 

Of  course  a  day  is  a  short  time  in 
which  to  get  the  full  benefit  of  the  peace- 
ful atmosphere  of  the  place  and  perhaps 
you  will  stay  on  as  we  are  doing  for 
several  days. 

Then  you  can  return  for  a  shilling  to 
'Derry,  take  Saturday's  steamer  to  the 
foot  of  Twenty-fourth  Street,  New  York, 
and  you'll  soon  be  walking  the  streets  of 
the  metropolis  filled  with  pleasant  mem- 
ories of  one  of  nature's  beauty  spots. 

Lough  Swilly  is  an  arm  of  the  Atlantic 
and  its  waters  are  salt.  At  Rathmullan 
the  lough  is  surrounded  by  lofty  green 
hills,  mostly  treeless,  gently  sloping  to 
the  water,  and  for  the  better  part  of  the 
time  softened  in  tone  by  an  Indian  sum- 
mer haze  indescribably  beautiful. 

We  came  down  according  to  the  pro- 
gram I  have  outlined,  and  traveled  third 
class  for  the  reason  I  have  stated,  but  as 
the  only  other  occupant  of  the  coach  was 


JUST  IRISH  29 

a  lone  "widow  woman"  we  were  unable  to 
get  any  characteristic  conversation.  In 
fact,  up  here  in  Donegal,  as  far  as  I  have 
observed,  the  natives  talk  more  like  the 
Scotch  than  they  do  like  the  Irish  made 
known  to  us  by  certain  actors.  When 
I  get  south  I  expect  to  hear  rich  brogues, 
but  here  the  burr  is  Scotch. 

We  were  ferried  from  Fahan  in  a  side- 
wheel  steamer,  and  soon  the  painfully 
neat-looking  white  houses  of  Rathmullan 
lay  before  us  and  we  disembarked,  and 
carrying  our  own  grips  unmolested  (a  sure 
sign  of  an  unusual  place)  we  made  our 
way  up  the  stone  pier  between  restless 
steers  who  were  waiting  for  us  to  get  out 
of  the  way  so  that  they  could  go  to  the 
slaughter  house.  There  had  been  a  cat- 
tle fair  that  day  in  Rathmullan. 

We  knew  little  of  the  town  save  what 
Stephen  Gwynn  says  of  it  in  his  delight- 
ful "  Highways  and  Byways  in  Donegal 
and  Antrim." 

There  is  a  most  picturesque  and  ivy- 


SO  JUST  IRISH 

grown  ruin  of  an  abbey  dating  back  to 
the  fifteenth  century.  It  is  much  more 
beautiful  than  Kenil  worth. 

We  bent  our  steps  to  the  plain-look- 
ing little  inn,  and  entering  the  taproom 
we  asked  for  lodgings  for  the  night. 
The  inn  is  kept  by  a  widow  who  still 
bears  trace  of  a  beauty  that  must  have 
been  transcendent  in  her  girlhood.  As 
it  is,  she  could  serve  as  a  model  to  some 
artist  for  an  allegorical  painting  repre- 
senting "  Sorrowful  Ireland";  the  arched 
eyebrows,  the  melting  eyes,  the  long, 
classic  nose,  and  the  grieving  mouth  - 
very  Irish  and  very  lovely. 

We  have  seen  many  pretty  women 
here  in  Ireland,  but  in  her  day  this  inn 
keeper  must  have  been  the  peer  of  any. 

Her  husband  kept  the  inn  formerly, 
but  as  an  Irishman  told  me,  "  He  died 
suddenly.  Throuble  with  the  head,"  said 
he,  tapping  his  own.  'Twas  heart  dis- 
ease, I  think."  This  is  the  first  Irish 
bull  I've  heard. 


p. 


To  THE  MEN  OF  '98 

OLIVER   SHEPHARD,    SCULPTOR 


JUST  IRISH  31 

My  companion  thought  he  would  like 
a  room  fronting  Lough  Swilly  and  so 
did  I. 

The  maid  who  had  taken  charge  of 
us  said  that  that  wouldn't  be  possible, 
as  the  only  available  rooms  having  such 
an  outlook  had  been  engaged  by  wire. 

"  But,"  said  my  insistent  friend,  who 
is  the  type  of  American  who  gets  what 
he  wants  by  smiles  if  possible,  but  who 
certainly  gets  it,  "  they  won't  be  here 
to-day,  will  they  ?  " 

"  No,  not  to-day;  to-morrow." 

4  Well,  let  us  have  the  rooms  for  to- 
night." 

"  But,  will  ye  give  them  up  when  they 
come  ?  "  said  she,  still  hesitating. 

"  Surely.  Depend  upon  it.  Count  on 
us  to  vamoose  just  as  soon  as  you  give 
the  word." 

"  But  these  people  come  every  year," 
said  she  tenaciously. 

"  I  don't  wonder  at  it,"  said  O'Donnell. 
(My  friend  is  of  Irish  descent.)  "  I 


32  JUST  IRISH 

would,  too,  if  I  didn't  live  so  far  away. 
Don't  you  worry,  honey.  We'll  just  go 
out  like  little  lambs  as  soon  as  you  give 
the  word." 

There  was  something  delightfully  quaint 
in  the  notion  that  because  people  were 
coming  to  the  rooms  to-morrow  night 
we  ought  not  to  have  them  to-night  — 
the  girl  was  perfectly  sincere.  She  evi- 
dently knew  the  lure  of  sunrise  on  the 
mountains  and  the  lake  and  feared  her 
ability  to  oust  us  once  we  were  ensconced. 

"  We're  passing  on  to-morrow  and 
will  be  just  as  careful  of  the  rooms," 
said  O'Donnell  in  the  tone  of  one  who 
talks  to  a  child,  and  the  pretty  maid 
succumbed,  and  our  valises  were  de- 
posited in  the  coveted  rooms. 

But  just  as  she  left  us  she  said  once 
more,  "  You'll  go  when  they  come,  won't 
you?" 

"  We  sure  will,"  said  O'Donnell,  with 
a  solemnity  that  carried  conviction  with 
it.  "  Now  about  dinner,"  said  he;  "  we'd 


JUST  IRISH  33 

like  dinner  at  six  thirty.     It's  now  four." 

"  We  haven't  begun  to  serve  dinners 
at  night  yet,"  said  the  maid.  The  sum- 
mer season  had  evidently  not  begun. 

"  Oh,  that's  too  bad,"  said  O'Donnell, 
"  but  you'll  make  an  exception  in  our 
case  now,  won't  you  ?  " 

She  thought  a  minute,  and  O'Donnell 
smiled  on  her. 

I  can  imagine  ice  banks  melting  under 
that  smile. 

"  I  suppose  we  could  give  you  hot 
roast  chicken,"  said  she. 

*  Why,  of  course  you  could.  Roast 
chicken  is  just  what  you  could  give  us, 
and  potatoes  with  their  jackets  on " 

"  And  soup,"  said  the  girl,  evidently 
excited  over  the  prospect. 

"  Yes,  we'll  leave  the  rest  to  you." 

So  we  went  out  and  walked  through 
the  lovely  countryside,  noting  that  in 
Ireland  fuchsias  grow  to  the  propor- 
tions of  our  lilac  bushes  and  are  loaded 
with  the  pretty  red  flowers. 


34  JUST  IRISH 

We  were  unable  to  name  most  of  the 
trees  we  saw  (but  that  sometimes  hap- 
pens in  America),  yet  we  were  both  sure 
we  had  not  seen  their  like  at  home.  And 
the  freshness  of  them  all,  the  brilliant 
quality  of  their  green,  fulfilled  all  ex- 
pectations. 

We  took  a  long  wTalk  and  arrived  at  the 
inn  with  appetites  sharpened. 

Friends  in  America  had  told  me  that 
I'd  not  fare  very  well  in  Ireland  except 
in  the  large  towns.  I  would  like  to  ask 
at  what  small  hotel  —  New  York  or 
Chicago  or  Philadelphia  —  I  would  get 
as  well  cooked  or  as  well  served  a  dinner 
as  was  brought  to  me  in  Londonderry 
for  three  shillings  and  sixpence. 

If  one  is  looking  for  Waldorf  mag- 
nificence and  French  disguises  he'll  not 
find  them  here  unless  it  is  at  Dublin,  but 
if  one  is  blessed  with  a  good  appetite 
and  is  willing  to  put  up  with  plain  cook- 
ing I  fancy  he  will  do  better  here  than  at 
like  hotels  at  home. 


if 


PROSPERITY  IN  LIMERICK 


JUST  IRISH  35 

The  Irish  are  such  good  cooks  that 
we  in  the  east  (of  America)  have  been 
employing  them  for  two  generations. 
Let  us  not  forget  that. 

We  entered  the  dining-room  and  had 
an  appetizing  soup  and  then  the  Irish 
potatoes  (oh,  such  Irish  potatoes!)  and 
anything  tenderer  or  better  cooked  than 
the  chicken  it  would  have  been  hard  to 
find.  We  looked  at  each  other  and  de- 
cided that  we  would  not  go  on  to  Port 
Salon  next  day,  but  would  spend  another 
night  in  Rathmullan,  and  we  said  so  to 
the  maid. 

"  But  you'll  take  other  rooms  ?  "  said 
she,  alarmed  at  once. 

"  Oh,  yes,  honey,  we'll  go  anywhere 
you  put  us." 

Now  you  know  we  had  an  itinerary, 
and  to  stay  longer  at  Rathmullan  was 
to  cut  it  short  somewhere  else,  but  the 
stillness  and  calm,  the  purple  shadows 
on  the  mountains  and  the  lake  (Lough 
Swilly  means  Lake  of  Shadows),  had  us 


36  JUST  IRISH 

gripped  and  we  were  content  to  stay  and 
make  the  most  of  it. 

A  simple,  golden  rule  sort  of  people 
the  inhabitants  are.  We  came  on  a 
man  clipping  hawthorn  bushes  and  asked 
him  how  far  it  was  to  a  certain  point  and 
whether  we  could  "  car  "  it  there. 

He  told  us  we  could  and  then  he  said, 
'  Were  ye  thinkin'  of  hirin'  a  car,  sir?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  O'Donnell. 

"  I  have  one,"  said  he. 

"  Well,"  said  O'Donnell,  "  we've  talked 
to  the  landlady  about  hiring  hers  - 

"  Ah,  yes,"  said  the  man.  "  Sure  I 
don't  want  ye  to  take  mine  if  she  expects 
to  rint  hers." 

Such  altruism! 

We  had  comfortable  beds  in  the  rooms 
that  had  been  engaged  by  wire  "  for 
to-morrow,"  and  indeed  they  were  so 
comfortable  that  we  never  saw  the  sun- 
rise at  all.  But  the  view  from  our  win- 
dows was  worth  the  price  of  the  rooms 
and  that  was  —  listen !  —  two  shillings 
and  sixpence  apiece! 


JUST  IRISH  37 

Wheat  porridge  and  fresh  eggs  (oh, 
so  fresh!)  and  yellow  cream  and  graham 
bread  and  jam  for  breakfast.  What 
more  do  you  want? 

Oh,  yes,  I  know  your  kind,  my  dear 
sir. 

"What!  no  steak?  No  chops,  and 
fried  ham  and  buckwheat  cakes  and 
oranges  and  grape  fruit  and  hot  rolls? 
What  sort  of  a  hotel  is  this  for  an  Ameri- 
can? You  tell  the  landlady  that  they 
don't  know  how  to  run  hotels  in  this 
country.  You  tell  her  to  come  to  God's 
country,  that's  what.  Then  she'll  learn 
how." 

Yes,  then  she'll  learn  how  to  set  out 
ten  or  twelve  dinkey  little  saucers  of  peas 
and  corn  and  beans  and  turnips  and  rice, 
all  tasting  alike. 

But  Mr.  O'Donnell  and  I  will  con- 
tinue to  like  the  simplicity  of  this  inn. 

We  astonished  the  easy-going  natives 
by  climbing  the  mountain  on  Inch  Island 
in  the  morning  for  the  magnificent  view 


38  JUST  IRISH 

and  going  fishing  for  young  cod  in  the 
afternoon.  The  young  fellow  who  took 
us  out  had  the  somewhat  Chinese  name 
of  Toye,  but  he  was  Irish. 

When  it  came  time  to  settle  for  the 
use  of  the  boat  and  his  services  for  a 
matter  of  twTo  hours  he  wanted  to  leave 
it  with  us. 

"No,  sir,"  said  O'Donnell.  "Your 
Uncle  Dudley  doesn't  do  business  that 
wTay,"  with  one  of  his  beaming  smiles. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  w^at  to  charge, 
sir,  pay  me  what's  right." 

'  That's  just  it.  I  don't  know  what's 
right." 

"  Well,  ye  were  not  out  so  long.  Is 
two  shillin's  apiece  right  ?  " 

'  Very  good,  indeed,  and  here's  six- 
pence extra  for  you,"  said  O'Donnell, 
paying  him. 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  boy, 
evidently  thinking  the  tip  far  too  much. 

But  as  we  had  caught  forty-eight  fish  in 
the  hour  we  were  at  the  fishing  grounds 


»«»•!• 


SfcLLfcR,     BuNDORAtf, 


1 


JUST  IRISH  39 

we  felt  that  it  was  worth  it.  Sixpence 
-  and  to  be  sincerely  thanked  for  it ! 
There  are  those  who  are  not  money  grub- 
bers. 

They  use  a  tackle  here  that  they  call 
"  chop  sticks  "  -  two  pieces  of  bamboo 
fastened  at  right  angles,  from  which  de- 
pend the  gut  and  hooks,  while  back  of 
them  is  the  heavy  sinker.  The  sinker 
rests  on  the  bottom  and  the  ugly  red 
;<  lugs  "  (bait)  play  around  in  the  water 
until  they  are  gulped  by  the  voracious 
coddlings,  or  cod.  We  had  small  hooks 
and  caught  only  the  youngsters. 

Time  after  time  we  threw  in  our  lines, 
got  "  two  strikes  "  at  once  and  pulled 
in  two  cod  as  fast  as  we  could  pull  in  the 
line. 

No  sport  in  the  way  of  fight  on  the 
part  of  the  party  of  the  second  part,  but 
not  a  little  excitement  in  thus  hauling  in 
toothsome  food. 

We  had  them  for  supper  and  I  tell 
you,  O  tired  business  man,  if  you  want 


40  JUST  IRISH 

to  know  how  good  fish  can  taste,  come 
over  here  and  go  a-fishin'.  Like  us  you 
will  stay  on  and  on. 

Oh,  yes,  about  those  other  people. 
No,  we  didn't  get  out  of  our  rooms,  be- 
cause the  landlady  had  relatives  in  Amer- 
ica and  so  she  made  other  arrangements 
for  her  expected  guests  and  we  stayed  on 
and  overlooked  Lough  S willy. 

Americans  are  popular  over  here. 
But  I  hope  they  won't  spoil  these  simple 
folk  with  either  excessive  tipping  or  ex- 
cessive grumbling. 


CHAPTER    III 

A  Joyful  Day  in  Donegal 

HOLLAND  is  noted  the  world  over 
for  its  neatness.  The  Dutch 
housewives  spend  a  good  part  of  each 
morning  in  scrubbing  the  sidewalks  in 
front  of  their  houses.  Philadelphia  is  also 
a  clean  town  and  there  you  will  see  house- 
maids out  scrubbing  the  front  stoops  and 
the  brick  pavements.  Now  a  good  part 
of  the  inhabitants  of  Donegal  emigrate 
to  Philadelphia.  (We  in  America  all  know 
the  song,  "  For  I'm  Off  to  Philadelphia 
in  the  Morning.")  Well,  the  third  neat- 
est place  that  occurs  to  me  is  Rathmullan, 
in  Lough  S willy,  in  County  Donegal. 

Whether  Philadelphia  is  neat  because 
of  the  Irish  or  the  Irish  of  Donegal  go  to 
Philadelphia  because  it  is  neat,  I  leave  to 
others  to  determine. 

41 


42  JUST  IRISH 

All  my  life  I've  read  and  have  been 
told  that  the  north  of  Ireland  was  very 
different  from  the  south;  that  the  peo- 
ple were  better  off  and  more  thrifty,  but 
I  did  not  expect  to  see  such  scrupulous 
neatness.  The  houses  are  mostly  white 
and  severely  plain  in  line,  built  of  stone 
faced  with  plaster,  sometimes  smooth  and 
sometimes  rough  finished,  but  always  in 
apple-pie  order  (unless  they  were  on 
parade  the  three  days  I  was  there) .  Even 
the  alleys  are  sweet  and  clean,  and  where 
the  people  keep  their  pigs  is  a  mystery  to 
me.  I  snapped  one,  but  he  was  being 
driven  hither  and  thither  after  the  man- 
ner of  Irish  pigs,  and  may  not  have  lived 
in  Rathmullan  at  all. 

Here  in  the  town  of  Donegal  while  the 
houses  are  not  of  Philadelphia  neatness, 
they  show  evidence  of  housewifely  care, 
and  if  there  is  abject  poverty  it  is  care- 
fully concealed.  (I  have  been  a  week  in 
Ireland  and  I  have  not  seen  a  beggar  or  a 
drunken  man,  although  I  have  kept  my 
eyes  moving  rapidly.) 


TN  DONEGAL 


!  I 


JUST  IRISH  43 

How  often  must  an  emigrant  who  has 
elected  to  live  in  noisome  tenements  in 
American  cities  long  for  the  white  cot- 
tages and  the  green  lanes  and  noble 
mountains  and  verdant  valleys  of  Done- 
gal! 

Every  hotel  at  which  I  have  stopped 
so  far  has  had  hot  and  cold  water  baths 
and  I  have  only  been  to  small  towns. 

I  heard  a  bathing  story  from  a  viva- 
cious Irish  lady  at  an  evening  gather- 
ing that  may  never  have  seen  American 
printer's  ink. 

She  said  that  in  former  times  a  lady 
stopping  at  a  primitive  hotel  in  the  west 
of  Ireland  asked  for  a  bath.  She  was 
told  by  the  maid  that  a  colonel  was  per- 
forming his  ablutions  in  the  room  in 
which  the  bathing  pan  was  set. 

"  But  he'll  not  be  long,  I'm  thinkin,' 
miss,"  said  the  maid. 

This  lady  waited  awhile  in  her  room, 
and  at  last  growing  impatient,  she  stepped 
out  into  the  hall  and  found  the  maid  with 
her  eye  to  the  keyhole  of  the  bathroom. 


44  JUST  IRISH 

On  hearing  the  lady's  footstep  she 
turned  around  quite  unabashed  and  said, 
"  He'll  be  ready  in  a  minute,  miss.  He's 
just  after  gettin'  out  of  the  tub." 

This  story  was  told  me  in  a  drawing- 
room  with  many  young  people  present, 
so  it  must  be  true,  but  candor  compels 
me  to  say  that  I  have  observed  nothing 
of  the  kind  on  this  trip.  There  are  no 
terrors  like  those  of  a  bath  in  an  English 
tub  of  which  I  had  occasion  to  speak 
last  year. 

Speaking  of  anecdotes,  I  heard  one 
that  concerned  the  father  of  the  man 
who  showed  us  through  the  lovely  ruins 
of  McSwiney's  castle  at  Rathmullan. 
Son,  father,  and  grandfather  have  all  in 
their  turn  acted  as  caretakers  of  the  ruins, 
and  proud  enough  is  the  son  of  his  position. 

But  it  is  of  the  father  that  the  story 
goes. 

The  wife  of  an  English  admiral,  whose 
family  were  in  the  habit  of  being  buried 
in  the  graveyard  adjoining  the  abbey 


JUST  IRISH  45 

whenever  they  died,  departed  this  life,  and 
to  "  Jimmy  "  fell  the  task  of  digging  her 
grave. 

Meeting  the  admiral  some  two  weeks 
later  he  said,  "  It'll  be  ten  shillings  for 
yon  grave." 

;*  Is  it  ten  shillings,  man  ?  "  said  the 
admiral.  '  Why  that's  extortionate.  I'll 
pay  five  shillings  and  that's  a  shilling 
more  than  usual,  but  I'll  not  pay  ten 
shillings." 

"  Ah,  well,"  said  Jimmy,  composedly, 
"  if  ye'll  not  pay  ten  shillings  then  I'll 
dig  her  up  again."  And  the  admiral, 
knowing  Jimmy  to  be  a  man  of  his  word, 
paid  him  what  does  not  look  to  be  an 
exorbitant  price. 

Among  the  most  impressive  ruins  in 
the  world  are  those  of  the  Grianan  (or 
summer  palace)  of  Aileach  on  Elagh 
mountain.  Here  is  a  circular  fort  of 
rocks  some  three  hundred  feet  in  circum- 
ference that  antedates  Christ's  nativity 
by  from  two  thousand  to  three  thousand 


46  JUST  IRISH 

years.  It  is  supposed  to  have  been  a 
temple  of  the  sun  worshippers  and  oc- 
cupies a  magnificent  and  awesome  posi- 
tion from  which  to  see  either  the  arrival 
or  the  departure  of  the  sun  god,  for  the 
half  of  County  Donegal  lies  north,  south, 
east,  and  west  at  your  feet.  Such  an 
extended  view  is  seldom  vouchsafed  to 
the  dwellers  within  towns  and  I  don't 
wonder  that  the  sun  worshippers  built 
there  a  temple  to  their  deity. 

There  it  still  stands,  its  walls  eighteen 
feet  high  and  twelve  feet  thick.  It  has 
been  somewhat  restored  by  Dr.  Ber- 
nard, of  Derry,  but  does  not  seem  to 
vie  with  the  Giant's  Causeway  as  an  at- 
traction to  visitors.  There  were  only 
three  persons  there  when  we  went  up, 
but  there  is  a  holy  well  just  outside  of  it 
and  from  the  number  of  bandages  flutter- 
ing in  the  wind  there  I  imagine  that  a  good 
many  maimed  people  manage  to  scale  the 
steep  ascent. 

I  said  that  Elagh  mountain  afforded 


JUST  IRISH  47 

a  fine  view  for  the  dwellers  within  towns. 
It  is  only  six  miles  by  car  and  a  mile  by 
foot  (I  suppose  seven  miles  in  any  manner 
would  cover  it)  from  Deny. 

By  the  way,  for  ease  and  comfort  to  a 
naturally  lazy  man,  commend  me  to  a 
jaunting  car.  The  cushioned  top  with 
which  they  cover  the  "  well  "  that  lies 
between  the  sidewise  seats  is  an  admirable 
place  on  which  to  "  slop  over  "  and  loll  on 
from  the  seat,  and  so  far  from  being  an  in- 
secure perch,  it  is  just  as  safe  as  a  dog 
cart  or  a  buggy.  And  the  motion  is 
pleasantly  stimulating  to  the  system. 
The  well-built,  vigorous,  well-fed  cob 
trots  with  the  regularity  of  a  metronome 
or  a  London  cab  horse,  reeling  off  mile 
after  mile.  We  did  our  twelve  miles  to 
and  from  Elagh  mountain  in  less  than 
two  hours  and  at  a  cost  of  three  shillings 
apiece,  exclusive  of  the  sixpenny  tip. 
They  don't  do  those  things  as  cheap  in 
New  York  or  Chicago. 

At  Donegal  my  friend  had  to  see  a  soli- 


48  JUST  IRISH 

citor  on  business  and  after  it  was  over  he 
came  to  me  and  said  that  the  solicitor 
would  like  to  take  us  sailing  down 
Donegal  Bay.  I  was  delighted  to  go, 
but  I  wondered  whether  we  would  walk 
down  to  the  bay  or  ride  there.  I  knew 
that  it  was  several  miles  out,  for  I  had 
seen  it  across  the  wet  sands  that  stretch 
from  the  town's  center  seaward. 

My  uncertainty  was  soon  dispelled, 
for  two  minutes'  walk  brought  us  to 
where  the  bare  sands  had  been  a  few 
hours  before,  and  lo,  Donegal  Bay  had 
come  to  us  and  the  solicitor's  boat  was 
riding  on  the  water  waiting  to  be  off. 
A  tide  is  a  handy  thing  to  have  about. 

As  one  leaves  the  inlet  and  looks  back 
he  gets  a  picture  that  might  have  been 
composed  by  an  exceedingly  successful 
landscape  gardener.  The  trim  little  town 
showing  a  bit  of  the  ruins  of  Donegal 
castle  and  one  graceful  church  spire, 
wooded  hills  running  up  from  the  town 
on  either  side;  back  of  all  this  hills  of 


JUST  IRISH  49 

t 

greater  magnitude,  destitute  of  trees,  and 

then,  towering  up  in  the  distance,  the 
great,  gaunt  Barnesmore  that  forms  part 
of  a  heaven-kissing  train. 

We  sailed  well  out  into  the  bay  with 
favoring  winds,  and  had  most  noble  views 
of  purple  mountains  on  every  side,  but 
when  we  turned  to  go  back  the  wind  made 
off  to  sea,  laughing  at  us,  and  we  came 
back  laggingly,  but  in  plenty  of  time  for  a 
cozy  supper  in  the  solicitor's  home  and 
an  all  evening  chat  with  him. 

We  had  never  met  until  that  day,  but 
his  welcome  was  as  hearty  as  if  he  had 
been  anxiously  awaiting  our  coming. 

As  I  got  off  the  train  at  Donegal  a 
heavy  hand  clapped  me  on  the  shoulder, 
and,  turning,  I  saw  Seumas  McManus, 
whose  Irish  stories  are  so  well  known  in 
America. 

He  lives  at  Mount  Charles,  a  village 
lying  three  Irish  miles  from  Donegal,  and 
nothing  would  do  but  my  friend  and  I 
must  have  dinner  with  him. 


50  JUST  IRISH 

We  accepted  with  pleasure,  and  next 
day  walked  up  there,  meeting  more  pretty 
girls  returning  from  mass  than  it  seemed 
right  for  two  to  meet  when  there  were 
so  many  people  in  the  world  who  seldom 
see  a  pretty  face.  But  we  tried  to  bear 
our  good  fortune  meekly  and  strode  on, 
quite  conscious  in  the  warm  sun  that  an 
Irish  mile  has  an  English  mile  beaten  by 
many  yards.  That  ought  to  be  cause 
for  satisfaction  to  any  Irishman. 

McManus  has  a  bungalow  on  top 
of  Mount  Charles,  and  at  his  feet  lie  seven 
counties.  They  have  a  way  of  throwing 
counties  at  your  feet  in  this  part  of  Ire- 
land that  makes  the  view  superb.  The 
furthermost  land  that  is  his  to  look  at 
on  a  clear  day  lies  a  hundred  miles  to  the 
south. 

Such  a  view  ought  to  stimulate  a  man 
to  noble  thoughts,  and  I  was  not  sur- 
prised to  learn  that  McManus  is  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Sinn  Fein  (Shinn  Fane)  So- 
ciety (it  means,  "  Ourselves  Alone  "), 


THE  BUNGALOW  OF  SEUMAS  McMxNus 


t 


JUST  IRISH  51 

what  one  might  call  bloodless  revolution- 
ists, although  it  comprises  much  of  the 
best  blood  and  the  youngest  blood  in 
Ireland. 

McManus  is  an  ardent  believer  in  a 
glorious  future  for  Ireland  when  she 
shall  have  shaken  off  the  shackles  that 
bind  her,  and  as  a  good  American,  I 
wrote  in  his  guest  book,  "  May  Ireland 
come  to  her  own  before  I  die." 


CHAPTER    IV 

The  Dull  Gray  Skies  of  Ireland 

I  AM  coining  more  and  more  to  be- 
lieve that  we  have  better  weather  in 
America  than  we  give  the  poor  coun- 
try credit  for.  What  passes  for  good 
weather  here  would  make  a  poor  sub- 
stitute for  the  American  article.  I  will 
not  deny  that  it  is  soft  and  insinuating, 
but  it  is  also  not  to  be  depended  upon, 
I  went  out  to  climb  a  wild-looking  moun- 
tain near  Bundoran,  on  the  northwest 
coast.  To  my  inexperienced  eye  the  day 
looked  promising  —  that  is  promising 
rain  —  but  the  driver,  of  whom  I  had 
ordered  a  car  to  take  me  to  the  base  of 
the  mountain,  said  there'd  be  no  rain. 
All  those  ugly  clouds  hovering  over  the 
summit  of  it  were  merely  reminders  that 
52 


JUST  IRISH  53 

there  was  such  a  thing  as  rain,  and  so  we 
started. 

And  here  let  me  make  a  few  remarks 
about  Irish  weather  in  general.  You 
are  out  walking  in  a  fine  "  mizzle,"  that 
penetrates  ordinary  cloth  with  the  utmost 
ease,  and  you  meet  a  countryman  to 
whom  you  observe  "  Not  very  pleasant." 
"  Oh,  it's  a  bit  soft,  but  it's  pleasant 
enough."  What  a  blessing  it  is  to  be 
easily  satisfied. 

You  strike  a  day  without  sun  and  posi- 
tively chilly,  and  the  natives  assure  you 
it  is  fine,  that  they  had  awful  weather 
last  week,  but  that,  according  to  the  baro- 
meter, the  weather  is  going  to  be  steady 
for  awhile.  They  have  borrowed  the 
barometer  habit  from  the  English,  and  it 
really  is  a  comfort  when  you're  going 
for  a  long  walk  or  drive  to  see  that  it 
points  to  fair.  "  Fair  to  middling  "  would 
be  better. 

Well,  my  driver  and  I  set  out  for  the 
mountain,  and  on  the  way  I  asked  him 


5*  JUST  IRISH 

the  question  I  ask  all  of  the  peasants 
with  whom  I  hold  conversation,  "  Would 
you  like  to  go  to  America  ?  " 

"  Sure  I  would.  I'll  not  be  stayin' 
here  long.  I've  an  aunt  an'  a  brother 
an'  a  cousin  an'  a  sister  an'  an  uncle 
beyant.  There's  no  chance  here." 

I  wonder  whether  the  reason  why 
there  is  no  chance  is  because  the  Irish- 
man is  lacking  in  application.  I  fell  in 
with  a  delightful  man  at  a  little  town  in 
County  Fermanagh.  I  wanted  a  little 
thing  done  to  my  watch  and  I  asked  him 
how  long  it  would  take  to  do  it. 

He  assured  me  that  he  was  driven 
to  death  with  work  and  was  up  till  late 
every  night  trying  to  get  ahead,  but  that 
he  would  try  to  find  time  to  mend  my 
watch  some  time  before  seven  o'clock, 
when  he  nominally  closed.  Then  he 
followed  me  to  the  door  of  his  shop  and 
began  to  ask  me  questions  about  Amer- 
ica, which  I  was  glad  to  answer,  as  I 
had  a  half  hour  to  kill  before  starting  for 


JUST  IRISH  55 

some  sight  or  other,  and  I  killed  that  half 
hour  most  agreeably  with  the  little  man's 
help.  He  pointed  out  different  passers 
by  and  told  me  their  life  histories.  And 
every  once  in  a  while  he  would  say,  "  I've 
not  had  a  day  off  for  nearly  a  year,  not 
even  bank  holiday.  Never  a  minute 
for  anything  but  work.  I've  an  order 
now  that's  going  to  keep  me  busy,  except 
for  the  time  I'll  give  to  your  watch,  all 
the  rest  of  the  day.  And  dinner  eaten 
in  my  workshop  to  save  time." 

I  told  him  I  wished  he  wasn't  so  driven, 
but  I  knew  how  it  was  with  a  man  who 
did  good  work,  and  then  I  bade  him  good 
day  and  didn't  go  near  there  until  seven 
in  the  evening.  I  found  him  outside  the 
shop  discussing  the  strike  of  the  con- 
stabulary at  Belfast  with  a  neighbor. 

"  Awfully  sorry,  sir,  but  I've  been  so 
busy  to-day  that  I've  been  unable  to 
finish  that  job.  It'll  not  take  over 
twenty  minutes  when  I  get  to  it.  Can 
you  come  in  the  morning  ?  " 


56  JUST  IRISH 

I  told  him  I  could,  say  about  eight 
o'clock. 

"  Oh,  dear  no.  We  don't  open  the 
shops  until  nine." 

'  Very  well,  then,  nine  will  do." 

And  having  some  more  time  that  I 
wished  to  kill  I  entered  into  a  discus- 
sion with  him  and  his  neighbor  as  to 
the  extent  to  which  the  constabulary 
disaffection  would  spread,  and  it  was 
eight  o'clock  when  I  went  back  to  my 
hotel. 

Next  morning  I  was  at  the  shop  at 
nine  and  he  was  just  taking  down  the 
shutters.  Said  he'd  worked  until  ten 
the  night  before,  but  seemed  further 
behind  than  before.  If  I'd  come  up 
into  his  workroom  he'd  fix  my  watch 
while  I  waited. 

Up  there  he  had  some  photographs 
to  show  me  that  he  had  taken  a  year 
ago  and  had  only  just  found  time  to 
develop,  and  we  talked  photography  for 
a  matter  of  twenty  minutes,  and  then  he 


I 


TlIK    ROCKS   AT    BuNDORAN   ON   THE    WlCST   CoASt 


1 


JUST  IRISH  57 

fixed  my  watch  in  a  jiffy  when  he  got  to 
work. 

He's  typical  not  only  of  Irishmen,  but 
of  Yankees,  too  —  men  who  can  work 
fast  if  you  seal  their  mouths. 

I  was  sorry  I  had  to  journey  on,  be- 
cause our  talks  had  been  pleasant  and 
it  had  never  once  entered  his  head  that 
he  was  wasting  that  time  of  which  he  had 
so  little,  although  he  dealt  in  watches. 

But  to  return  to  my  driver. 

When  we  reached  the  base  of  the 
mountain  he  put  the  horse  up  in  a  stone 
stable  that  belonged  to  a  poor  woman. 
Think  of  a  poor  woman  housing  her  cow 
in  a  stone  stable,  built  to  stand  the  wear 
and  tear  of  generations ! 

We  had  no  sooner  begun  our  climb 
of  the  hill  or  mountain  than  the  rain 
came  down  in  earnest,  and  my  shoes 
were  soon  wet  through,  but  I  persevered, 
somewhat  to  the  disappointment  of  the 
boy,  who  was  better  used  to  being  wet  on 
his  car  than  on  foot.  But  when  we 


58  JUST  IRISH 

reached  the  top  the  view  of  all  Donegal 
bay  and  the  mountains  beyond,  and 
many  other  bits  of  geography  not  half  as 
beautiful  on  the  map  as  they  are  in  nature, 
repaid  me  for  my  climb  and  wetting. 

And  when  I  said,  "  It's  too  bad  it 
rained  just  as  we  got  here,"  my  driver 
said,  "  It's  always  rainin'  on  the  moun- 
tains," although  when  he  was  getting 
me  for  a  passenger  he  had  assured  me 
it  wouldn't  rain  on  the  mountain. 

We  made  our  way  down  through  the 
wet,  but  still  beautifully  purple  heather, 
and  just  as  we  reached  the  level  the  rain 
stopped.  It  was  as  if  our  feet  upon  the 
mountain  had  precipitated  the  rain. 

But  at  the  close  of  the  drive  I  found 
a  comfortable  inn  and  a  most  agreeable 
dinner  of  fresh  caught  fish,  and  that 
mutton  that  we  never  seem  to  get  in 
America,  and  I  still  felt  that  the  climb 
was  worth  the  wetting. 

But  the  weather  never  ceases  to  as- 
tonish me.  Dull  gray  skies  at  home 


JUST  IRISH  59 

would  depress  me,  but  here  I  am  thankful 
for  dull  gray  skies  if  they  only  stop  leak- 
ing long  enough  to  enable  me  to  do  my 
accomplished  task  of  walking  or  driving. 

But  real  rain  has  no  terrors  for  country- 
man or  city  man  in  Ireland.  I  attended 
a  concert  at  the  exhibition  in  Dublin 
(and  it  would  not  have  been  a  tax  on  the 
imagination  to  pretend  one  was  at  Lunar 
Park  in  Coney  Island  or  at  the  French 
Exposition  or  the  Pan-American) .  There 
was  the  usual  bandstand,  and  the  Dublin 
populace  to  the  extent  of  several  thousands 
were  seated  on  little  chairs  listening  to  the 
combined  bands  of  H.  M.  Second  Life 
Guards,  the  Eighty-seventh  Royal  Irish 
Fusiliers  (Faugh-a-Ballaghs)  and  the 
Forty-second  Royal  Highlanders  (the 
Black  Watch). 

Outside  the  circle  of  those  in  seats 
passed  and  repassed  a  slowly  prome- 
nading crowd  made  up  of  pretty  Dublin 
girls  and  their  escorts,  with  mustaches 
as  spindle-waxed  as  ever  any  French- 


60  JUST  IRISH 

man's,  a  sprinkling  of  English,  and  the 
ever-present  Americans,  with  their  alert 
eyes,  the  Americans  straw-hatted,  the 
English  derbied,  and  the  Irish,  almost 
to  a  man,  wearing  huge,  soft  green  or 
gray-visored  cloth  caps. 

Suddenly  the  rain  began  to  fall. 

I  know  at  least  two  Americans  who 
put  for  shelter,  but  the  Irish  people 
present  merely  put  up  umbrellas  and 
went  on  promenading  and  sitting  and 
listening  to  the  music.  Gay  strains  from 
'  The  Mikado  "  (there  were  no  Japanese 
present),  somber  umbrellas,  colorful  mil- 
linery and  drizzling  rain.  An  American 
crowd  would  have  made  for  the  main 
exhibition  building,  but  I  doubt  if  the 
Dubliners  noticed  that  it  was  raining. 
Their  umbrellas  went  up  under  sub- 
conscious direction. 

After  the  concert  the  crowds  went 
home  in  the  double-decker  electric  trams, 
and  every  seat  on  the  roof  of  every  car 
was  filled  by  the  holiday  crowd,  although 


JUST  IRISH  61 

the  rain  was  still  coming  down  in  a  relent- 
less fashion. 

In  the  north  they  would  have  called 
it  a  bit  soft.  I  know  we  felt  like  mush 
when  we  arrived  at  our  hotel. 


CHAPTER   V 

The  Joys  of  Third-Class    Travel 

IN  Ireland,  if  you  wish  to  travel  third 
class,  it  is  well  to  get  into  a  carriage 
marked  "  non  smoking."  If  there  is  no 
sign  on  it  it  is  a  smoking  compartment, 
quite  probably,  the  custom  here  being 
often  the  direct  opposite  of  that  in  Great 
Britain. 

If  you  are  traveling  with  women  in 
the  party  the  second  class  is  advisable, 
but  the  third  has  this  advantage  —  it 
saves  you  money  that  you  can  spend  on 
worthless  trinkets  that  may  be  confiscated 
by  our  customs  house  officers. 

I  have  been  ten  days  in  the  north  of 
Ireland  and  I  met  my  first  drunken  man 
in  a  third-class  carriage. 

Will  the  W.  C.yT.  U.  kindly  make> 
note  of  this?    Allow  me  to  repeat  for 
62 


JUST  IRISH  65 

the  benefit  of  those  who  took  up  the 
paper  after  I  had  begun  —  I  have  been 
ten  days  in  Ireland  and  have  traveled 
afoot,  acar,  and  on  train  and  tram 
through  half  a  dozen  northern  counties 
and  have  been  on  the  outlook  for  pic- 
turesque sights,  and  I  saw  my  first 
drunken  man  yesterday  afternoon  —  the 
afternoon  of  the  tenth  day. 

He  was  in  a  tLird-class  smoking  com- 
partment, and  in  my  hurry  to  make  my 
train  I  stepped  in  without  noticing  the 
absence  of  the  sign. 

He  was  a  very  old  and  rather  nice-looking , 
clean-shaven  man,  and  his  instincts  were 
for  the  most  part  of  the  kindliest,  but  he 
would  have  irritated  Charles  Dickens  ex- 
ceedingly, for  he  was  an  inveterate  spitter, 
of  wonderful  aim,  and,  like  the  beautiful 
lady  in  the  vaudeville  shows  whose  hus- 
band surrounds  her  with  knives  without 
once  touching  her,  I  was  surrounded  but 
unharmed.  When  the  old  man  saw  my 
straw  hat  a  gleam  of  interest  came  into 


64  JUST  IRISH 

his  dull  eye,  and  he  came  over  and  sat 
down  right  opposite  me. 

"  Are  ye  a  Yankee  ?  "  said  he.  I  as- 
sured him  that  I  was.  "  I  thought  so  be 
your  hat,  but  you  don't  talk  like  a 
Yankee."  So  I  handed  him  out  a  few 
:<  by  Goshes,"  which  he  failed  to  recog- 
nize and  told  me  plainly  that  he  doubted 
my  nationality.  Except  for  my  hat  I 
was  no  Yankee.  Now  my  hat  was  made 
in  New  York,  but  I  knew  that  this  was  a 
subtlety  that  would  pass  him,  so  I  again 
proclaimed  my  nationality,  and  he  asked 
me  with  great  politeness  if  I  objected  to 
his  smoking  (keeping  up  his  fusillade  all 
the  time)  and  I  with  polite  insincerity 
told  him  that  I  didn't.  For  his  intentions 
were  of  the  kindliest.  I  believe  he  would 
have  stopped  spitting  if  I  had  asked  him 
to,  but  I  hated  to  deprive  so  old  a  man  of 
so  quiet  a  pleasure. 

The  talk  now  turned  to  the  condi- 
tion of  Ireland,  and  he  told  me  in  his 
maudlin,  thickly  articulated  way  that 


GEESE  IN  GALWAY 


I   i 


JUST  IRISH  65 

Ireland  was  on  the  eve  of  a  great  in- 
dustrial revival.  As  I  had  repeatedly 
heard  this  from  the  lips  of  perfectly 
sober  people  I  believed  it.  I  told  him 
that  he  would  live  to  see  a  more  pros- 
perous Ireland. 

This  he  refused  to  believe  and  once 
more  asked  me  if  I  was  as  American 
as  my  hat.  I  assured  him  that  perhaps 
I  was  even  more  so  and  that  his  grand- 
children would  surely  live  to  see  Triumph- 
ant Ireland.  This  he  accepted  gladly, 
and  coming  to  his  place  of  departure, 
bade  me  kindly  farewell,  and  stumbled 
over  his  own  feet  out  of  the  compartment. 
And  I  immediately  changed  to  one  where 
smoking  was  not  allowed. 

It  was  on  the  same  journey  that  I 
stopped  at  a  place  called  Omagh,  and 
while  waiting  for  a  connection  we  were 
at  the  station  some  time.  I  was  reading, 
but  suddenly  became  conscious  that  some 
young  people  were  having  a  very  happy 
time,  for  peal  after  peal  of  laughter  rang 


66 


through  the  station.  After  awhile  I  looked 
up  and  found  that  I  was  the  cause  of  all 
this  joy  on  the  part  of  young  Ireland. 
There  were  three  or  four  girls  abso- 
lutely absorbed  in  me  and  my  appear- 
ance. I  supposed  it  was  again  the  Ameri- 
can hat,  but  suddenly  one  of  the  girls 
;<  pulled  a  face  "  that  I  recognized  as  a 
caricature  of  my  own  none  too  merry 
countenance,  and  the  group  went  off  into 
new  peals  of  merriment. 

"How  pleasant  a  thing  it  is,"  thought 
I,  "  that  by  the  mere  exhibition  of  the 
face  nature  gave  me  in  America  I  can 
amuse  perfect  strangers  in  a  far-off  land," 
and  I  smiled  benignantly  at  the  young 
women,  which  had  the  effect  of  nearly 
sending  them  into  hysterics. 

Life  was  a  little  darker  for  them  after 
the  train  pulled  out,  but  I  could  not  stay 
in  Omagh  for  the  mere  purpose  of  excit- 
ing their  risibles  by  the  exposition  of  my 
gloomy  features. 

Everywhere  I  go  I  am  a  marked  man. 


JUST  IRISH  67 

I  feared  for  a  time  that  there  was  some- 
thing the  matter  with  my  appearance,  but 
at  Enniskillen  I  fell  in  with  a  young  loco- 
motive engineer  from  California,  and  he 
told  me  that  he  too  aroused  attention 
wherever  he  went,  and  that  in  Cork 
youngsters  followed  him  shouting  "  Yan- 
kee! "  Fancy  a  "  Yankee  "  from  Cali- 
fornia ! 

At  Enniskillen  I  went  for  a  walk  with 
this  young  engine  driver  and  we  passed 
two  pretty  young  girls,  of  whom  he  in- 
quired the  way  to  the  park.  It  seems 
that  the  young  women  were  on  their  way 
there  themselves  and  they  very  obligingly 
showed  us  how  to  go.  It  occurred  to 
the  gallant  young  Californian  that  such 
an  exhibition  of  kindliness  was  worth  re- 
warding, and  he  asked  the  ladies  if  they 
did  not  care  to  stroll  through  the  park. 
They,  having  nothing  else  to  do  and  the 
evening  being  fine,  consented,  and  we 
made  a  merry  quartette. 

I  have  been  somewhat  disappointed  in 


68  JUST  IRISH 

the  Irishman  as  a  wit  in  my  actual  con- 
tact with  him  on  his  native  heath,  but 
these  girls  showed  that  wit  was  still  to 
be  found.  They  were  very  quick  at 
decorous  repartee,  and  although  my  San 
Francisco  friend  neglected  to  introduce 
me  to  them  (possibly  because  he  did  not 
know  their  names),  I  paid  a  tribute  to 
their  gifts  of  conversation. 

Nor  should  it  be  imagined  for  a  moment 
that  they  were  of  that  sisterhood  so  de- 
servedly despised  by  that  estimable 
and  never  to  be  too  well  thought  of  Mrs. 
Grundy  -  -  they  were  simply  working  girls 
who  were  out  for  an  evening  stroll  and 
who  saw  in  a  chance  conversation  with 
representatives  of  the  extreme  east  and 
west  of  America  an  opportunity  for 
mental  improvement. 

They  were,  it  may  be,  unconventional, 
but  how  much  more  interesting  are  such 
people  than  those  whose  lives  are  or- 
dered by  rule. 

We  left  the  young  women  in  the  park 


JUST  IRISH  69 

intent  upon  the  glories  of  a  day  that  was 
dying  hard  (after  eighteen  hours  of  day- 
light) and  as  we  made  our  way  to  the 
hotel  we  agreed  that  a  similar  readiness 
to  converse  with  strangers  on  the  part 
of  young  women  in  New  York  would 
have  given  reasonable  cause  for  various 
speculations. 

But  Ireland  has  a  well-earned  repu- 
tation for  a  certain  thing,  which  the  just 
published  table  of  vital  statistics  for  the 
year  1906  goes  far  to  strengthen. 

In  the  morning  the  young  locomotive 
pusher  and  myself  had  attended  a  cattle 
show  at  Enniskillen  fair  grounds. 

I  don't  mind  saying  that  I  had  stayed 
over  a  day  in  order  to  go  to  the  fair,  for 
I  have  not  read  Irish  literature  for  nothing, 
and  I  was  perfectly  willing  to  see  a  fight 
and  ascertain  the  strength  of  a  shillelagh 
as  compared  with  a  Celtic  skull. 

It  was  a  great  day  for  Enniskillen  and 
for  the  Enniskillen  Guards,  who  were 
out  in  force.  There  were  also  pretty 


70  JUST  IRISH 

maidens  from  all  the  surrounding  coun- 
ties and  not  a  few  of  the  gentry  who  had 
been  attracted  by  the  jumping  contests. 

But  —  what  a  disappointment. 

Irishmen  ?  Why,  you'll  see  more  Irish- 
men any  pleasant  day  below  Fourteenth 
Street  in  New  York.  And  those  that 
were  there  were  so  painfully  well  behaved 
and  quiet.  And  as  for  speaking  the  Irish 
dialect  —  well,  I  wish  that  some  of  the 
Irish  comedians  who  have  been  persuaded 
that  Irishmen  wear  green  whiskers  would 
come  over  here  and  listen  to  Irishmen 
speak.  They  wouldn't  understand  them, 
they  speak  so  like  other  people. 

For  ginger  and  noise  and  varied  in- 
terests any  New  England  cattle  show 
has  this  one  beaten  to  a  pulp  —  if  one 
may  use  so  common  an  expression  in  a 
newspaper. 

The  noisiest  things  there  were  the 
bulls,  and  they  were  vociferous  and  huge. 
But  the  men  were  soft  spoken  and  there 
seemed  little  of  the  "  Well,  I  swan!  I 


JUST  IRISH  71 

hain't  seen  you  for  more'n  two  years. 
How's  it  goin'  ?  "  "  Oh,  fair  to  middlin'. 
Able  to  set  up  an'  eat  spoon  vittles  " 
atmosphere  in  the  place,  although  un- 
doubtedly it  was  a  great  gathering  of 
people  who  seldom  met.  Not  a  single 
side  show.  Not  a  three-card  monte  man 
or  a  whip  seller  or  a  vendor  of  non- 
intoxicants. 

There  was  just  one  man  selling  what 
must  have  been  mock  oranges,  for  such 
mockeries  of  oranges  I  never  saw. 
They  were  the  size  of  peaches  and  the 
engineer  told  me  they  were  filled  with 
dusty  pulp. 

I  bought  none. 

The  racing  and  fence  jumping  in  the 
afternoon  were  interesting,  but  there  was 
no  wild  Yankee  excitement  on  the  part 
of  the  crowd  and  no  hilarity.  There  was 
only  one  man  that  I  noticed  as  having 
taken  more  than  was  necessary,  and  the 
only  effect  it  had  on  him  was  to  unlock 
the  flood  gates  of  an  incoherent  elo- 


72  JUST  IRISH 

quence  that  caused  a  great  deal  of  amuse- 
ment to  those  who  were  able  to  extricate 
a  sequence  of  ideas  from  the  alcoholic 
freshet  of  words. 

One  venerable-looking  man,  with  a 
flowing  white  beard  of  the  sort  formerly 
worn  by  Americans  of  the  requisite  years, 
fell  from  a  fence  where  he  was  viewing 
the  jumping  and  was  knocked  out  for  a 
time.  He  had  been  "  overcome  by  the 
heat,"  at  which,  out  of  respect  to  him,  I 
took  off  my  overcoat.  The  Irish  idea  of 
heat  is  different  from  the  New  York  one. 

The  splendid  old  fellow  had  served 
thirty-three  years  on  the  police  force  and 
had  been  a  police  pensioner  for  thirty-one 
years,  and  as  he  must  have  been  twenty- 
one  when  he  joined  the  force  he  was 
upwards  of  eighty-five. 

Would  Edward  Everett  Hale  view  a 
race  from  a  picket  fence?  There  is 
something  in  the  Irish  air  conducive 
to  longevity.  In  the  evening  I  saw  the 
old  man  standing  in  the  doorway  of  a 


JUST  IRISH  73 

temperance  hotel  talking  with  men  some 
seventy  years  younger  than  he. 

A  local  tradesman  told  me  that  in  the 
town  of  Enniskillen  where  formerly  any 
public  gathering  was  sure  to  be  followed 
by  a  public  fight,  he  had  seen  the  Catholic 
band  and  the  Orangemen's  band  playing 
amicably  the  same  tune  (I'll  bet  it  wasn't 
'  The  Wearing  of  the  Green  "),  as  they 
marched  side  by  side  up  the  main  street. 

The  world  do  move. 


CHAPTER    VI 

A  Few  Irish  Stories 

IF  you  enter  Ireland  by  the  north,  as 
I  did,  you  will  not  hear  really  satisfy- 
ing Irish  dialect  until  you  reach  Dublin. 
The  dialect  in  the  north  is  very  like  Scotch, 
yet  if  it  were  set  down  absolutely  pho- 
netically it  would  be  neither  Scotch  nor 
Irish  to  the  average  reader,  but  a  new  and 
hard  dialect,  and  he  would  promptly  skip 
the  story  that  was  clothed  in  this  strange 
dress. 

But  in  Dublin  one  hears  two  kinds 
of  speech,  the  most  rolling,  full  and 
satisfying  dialect  and  also  the  most  per- 
fect English  to  be  found  in  the  British 
Isles. 

It  is  a  delight  to  hear  one's  mother 
tongue  spoken  with  such  careless  pre- 
74 


DUBLIN  BAY 


JUST  IRISH  75 

cision,  with  just  the  suspicion  of  a  brogue 
to  it.  I  am  told  it  is  really  the  way  that 
English  was  spoken  when  the  most  suc- 
cessful playwright  was  not  Shaw,  but 
Shakespeare. 

The  folk  tale  that  follows  was  told 
me,  not  by  a  Dublin  jarvey,  but  by  a 
Dublin  artist  whose  command  of  the 
right  word  was  as  great  as  his  com- 
mand of  his  brush. 

He  regaled  me  with  many  stories  of 
Irishmen  and  Ireland  and  never  let  pass 
a  chance  to  abuse  the  English  in  the  most 
amusingly  good-natured  way.  To  him 
the  English  as  a  race  were  a  hateful, 
selfish  lot.  Most  of  the  Englishmen  he 
knew  personally  were  exceptions  to  this 
rule,  but  he  was  convinced  that  the  aver- 
age Englishman  was  a  man  who  was  nur- 
tured in  selfishness  and  hypocritical 
puritanism. 

But  this  is  far  afield  from  his  story  of 
the  first  looking  glass. 

Once  upon  a  time   (said  my  friend) 


76  JUST  IRISH 

a  man  was  out  walking  by  the  edge  of 
the  ocean  and  he  picked  up  a  looking 
glass. 

Into  the  glass  he  looked  and  he  saw 
there  the  face  of  himself. 

"  Oh,"  said  he,  "  'tis  a  picture  of  my 
father,"  and  he  took  it  to  his  cabin  and 
hung  it  on  the  wall.  And  often  he  would 
go  to  look  at  it,  and  always  he  said,  "  'Tis 
a  picture  of  my  father." 

But  one  day  he  took  to  himself  a  wife, 
and  when  she  went  to  the  mirror  and 
looked  in  she  said: 

"  I  thought  you  said  this  was  a  picture 
of  your  father.  Sure,  it  is  a  picture  of  an 
ugly,  red-headed  woman.  Who  is  she  ?  " 

"  What  have  ye  ? "  said  the  man. 
"  Step  away  and  let  me  to  it." 

So  she  stepped  away  and  let  him  to 
it  and  he  looked  at  it  again. 

"  Ah,"  said  he  with  a  sigh  (for  his 
father  was  dead),  "  'tis  a  picture  of  my 
father." 

"  Step  away,"  said  she,  "  and  let  me 


JUST  IRISH  77 

see  if  it's  no  eyes  at  all  I  have.  What 
have  you  with  pictures  of  women  ?  " 

So  he  stepped  away  and  let  her  to  it, 
and  she  looked  in  it  again. 

"  An  ugly,  red-headed  woman  it  is," 
said  she.  "  You  had  a  lover  before  me," 
and  she  wras  very  angry. 

"  Sure  we'll  leave  it  to  the  priest," 
said  he. 

And  when  the  priest  passed  by  they 
called  him  in  and  said,  "  Father,  tell  us 
what  it  is  that  this  picture  is  about. 
I  say  it  is  my  father,  who  is  dead." 

"  And  I  say  it  is  a  red-haired  woman 
I  never  saw,"  said  the  woman. 

"  Step  away,"  said  the  priest,  with 
authority,  "  and  let  me  to  it." 

So  they  stepped  away  and  let  the 
priest  to  it,  and  he  looked  at  it. 

"  Sure  neither  you  nor  the  woman 
was  right.  What  eyes  have  ye?  It  is 
a  picture  of  a  holy  father.  I  will  take  it 
to  adorn  the  church." 

And   he   took   it   awav   with   him,   to 


78  JUST  IRISH 

the  gladness  of  the  wife,  who  hated  the 
woman  her  husband  had  in  the  frame, 
and  to  the  grief  of  the  man,  who  could 
see  his  father  no  more. 

But  in  the  church  was  the  picture  of  a 
holy  man. 

Quite  the  folklore  quality. 

I  heard  a  story  of  a  well-known  Dublin 
priest,  Father  Healy,  very  witty  and  very 
kindly,  who  was  invited  by  a  millionaire, 
probably  a  brewer,  to  go  on  a  cruise  with 
him. 

Over  the  seas  they  sailed  and  landed 
at  many  ports,  and  the  priest  could  not 
put  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  for  he  was 
the  guest  of  the  millionaire. 

At  last  they  returned  to  Dublin  and 
the  millionaire,  being  a  man  of  simplicity 
of  character,  the  two  took  a  tram  to  their 
destination. 

"  Now  it's  my  turn,"  said  the  priest, 
with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  and,  putting 
his  hand  in  his  pocket,  he  paid  the  fare 
for  the  two. 


<|4    •»•«»•     ^^.    • 


A  DUBLIN  ICE  CART 


JUST  IRISH  7d 

And  here's  another. 

Two  Irishmen  were  in  Berlin  at  a 
music  hall,  and  just  in  front  of  them  sat 
two  officers  with  their  shakos  on  their 
heads. 

Leaning  forward,  with  a  reputation 
for  courtesy  to  sustain,  one  of  the  Irish- 
men said,  pleasantly,  "  Please  remove 
your  helmet;  I  can't  see  the  stage  for 
the  plume." 

By  way  of  reply  the  German  officer 
insolently  flipped  the  Irishman  in  the 
face  with  his  glove. 

In  a  second  the  Irishman  was  on  his 
feet  and  in  another  second  the  officer's 
face  was  bleeding  from  a  crashing  blow. 

Satisfaction  having  been  thus  obtained, 
the  two  Irishmen  left  the  cafe  and  re- 
turned to  their  hotel,  where  they  boasted 
of  the  affair. 

Fortunately  kind  friends  at  once 
showed  them  the  necessity  of  immedi- 
ately crossing  the  frontier. 

That  the  Irishman  had  not  been  run 


80  JUST  IRISH 

through  by  the  officer's  sword  was  due 
to  the  fact  that  he  was  a  foreigner. 

Speaking  of  fights,  the  other  day  an 
American  friend  of  mine  was  taking  a 
walk  in  Dublin  and  he  came  on  a  street 
fight.  Four  men  wrere  engaged  in  it, 
and  no  one  else  was  interfering.  Passers 
by  glanced  over  their  shoulders  and  walked 
on.  Two  women,  evidently  related  to 
the  contestants,  stood  by  awaiting  the 
result. 

My  friend  mounted  a  flight  of  steps 
and  watched  the  affair  with  unaffected 
interest. 

A  member  of  the  Dublin  constabulary 
happened  to  pass  the  street,  and,  glancing 
down,  saw  to  his  disgust  that  it  was  up 
to  him  to  stop  a  fight. 

Slowly  he  paced  toward  them,  giving 
them  time  to  finish  at  least  one  round. 

But  the  two  women  saw  him  coming 
and,  rushing  into  the  mixture  of  fists  and 
arms  and  legs,  hustled  the  combatants 
into  the  house,  and  the  policeman  went 


JUST  IRISH  81 

along  his  beat  twirling,  not  his  club, 
but  his  waxed  mustache. 

I  told  a  Dublin  man  of  this  incident, 
deploring  my  luck  in  not  having  come 
across  it  with  my  camera  in  my  hand. 

He  said:  '  That  policeman  was  un- 
doubtedly sorry  that  he  happened  on 
the  row.  He  would  much  have  pre- 
ferred to  let  them  fight  it  out  while  he 
sauntered  by  on  another  street  all  un- 
knowing. Not  that  he  was  afraid  to  run 
them  in,  but  that  an  Irishman  loves  a 

fight.- 

Another  sight  that  I  saw  myself  at  a 
time  when  my  camera  was  not  with  me 
was  two  little  boys,  not  five  years  apiece, 
engaged  in  a  wrestling  match  under  the 
auspices  of  their  father,  who  proudly 
told  me  that  they  were  very  good  at  it. 
The  little  fellows  shook  hands,  flew  at 
each  other,  and  wrestled  for  all  they  were 
worth.  And  from  the  time  they  clinched 
until  one  or  the  other  was  thrown  they 
were  laughing  with  joy.  They  wrestled 


82  JUST  IRISH 

for  several  rounds,  but  the  laughter  never 
left  them. 

How  much  better  it  is  for  little  chil- 
dren to  learn  to  fight  under  the  watch- 
ful and  appreciative  eye  of  a  kind  father 
than  to  learn  at  the  hands  of  vindictive 
strangers. 


I 


i 


O'CONNELL'S  MONUMENT,  DUBLIN 


CHAPTER   VII 

Snapping  and  Tipping 

T I  iHE  poor  man  never  knows  the 
JL  cares  and  responsibilities  that  beset 
the  man  of  wealth,  and  the  man  without 
a  kodak  does  not  know  how  keen  is  the 
disappointment  of  a  picture  missed  — 
be  the  cause  what  it  may. 

Heretofore  I  have  traveled  care  free 
for  two  reasons:  one  was  I  never  had 
any  money  to  speak  of,  and  the  other 
was  I  never  carried  a  camera.  I  looked 
at  the  superb  view,  or  the  picturesque 
street  group,  solely  for  its  passing  interest, 
with  never  a  thought  of  locking  it  up  in  a 
black  box  for  the  future  delectation  of 
my  friends,  and  to  bore  transient  visitors 
who,  as  I  have  noticed,  always  begin  to 
look  up  their  time  tables  when  the  snap- 
83 


84  JUST  IRISH 

shot  album  is  produced  of  a  rainy  Sunday 
afternoon. 

But  this  year  some  one  with  the  glib 
tongue  of  a  salesman  persuaded  me  of 
the  delights  that  were  consequent  on  the 
pressing  of  a  button,  and  I  purchased  a 
camera  of  the  sort  that  makes  its  owner 
a  marked  man. 

The  first  two  or  three  days  I  was  as 
conscious  as  a  man  who  has  just  shaved 
his  mustache  on  a  dare,  and  who  expects 
his  wife  home  from  the  country  any 
minute.  I  fancied  that  every  one  knew 
I  was  a  novice,  although  even  I  hadn't 
seen  any  of  my  pictures  as  yet. 

I  snapped  a  number  of  friends  on  the 
steamer,  and  even  had  the  audacity  to 
make  the  captain  look  pleasant  —  but 
in  his  case  it  came  natural,  and  really, 
when  it  was  printed,  even  strangers  could 
hear  his  hearty  laugh  whenever  they 
looked  at  the  picture,  so  true  to  life  was  it. 

Of  course  it  was  beginner's  luck,  but 
as  I  went  on  snapping  and  getting  the 


JUST  IRISH  85 

films  developed  I  found  that  I  had  picked 
up  a  fine  lens,  and  the  pictures  I  was 
taking  were  really  worth  while,  and  then- 
Say,  have  you  ever  had  hen  fever? 
Has  your  pulse  ever  quickened  at  sight 
of  an  egg  you  could  call  your  own  ? 
Have  you  ever  breathed  hard,  when  the 
old  hen  led  forth  thirteen  fluffy  chickens 
and  you  reflected  that  thirteen  chickens 
would  reach  the  egg-laying  stage  in  seven 
months,  and  that  if  each  of  them  hatched 
out  thirteen  you  would  have  one  hundred 
and  sixty-nine  inside  of  a  year  —  and 
then  have  you  gone  out  and  bought 
twenty  old  hens,  so  as  to  have  wholesale 
success — with  deplorable  results?  If 
you  have  done  all  these  things  you  know 
what  a  man  does  whose  first  snapshots 
are  successful.  I  laid  in  supplies  of 
films  till  my  pockets  bulged  and  my  purse 
looked  lean. 

And  the  first  time  the  sun  shone  after 
landing  at  'Derry,  I  went  out  to  see  the 
Giant's  Causeway  —  and  left  my  camera 
behind  me. 


86  JUST  IRISH 

Then  I  experienced  for  the  first  time 
the  sensation  as  of  personal  loss,  when 
the  views  that  might  have  been  mine 
were  left  where  they  grew. 

On  my  way  back  I  came  on  a  hard- 
ened old  sinner  of  sixty  odd  years  teach- 
ing a  little  kiddie  of  four  to  smoke  a 
cigarette.  If  I  had  had  my  camera  I 
could  have  batted  the  old  man  over  the 
head  with  it.  But  it  was  in  the  hotel. 

When  I  show  my  views  to  visitors 
they  will  say,  "  And  didn't  you  go  to  the 
Giant's  Causeway  ?  "  nor  will  they  ac- 
cept my  reason  for  the  lack  of  a  view. 
And  I  feel  that  the  set  is  incomplete. 

As  time  went  on  I  noticed  several 
things  that  are  probably  obvious  to  every 
amateur.  One  was  that  on  the  days  on 
which  I  remembered  to  take  my  camera 
I  saw  very  commonplace  subjects  and 
only  snapped  because  I  had  the  habit. 
Another  was  that  no  matter  how  fine  the 
weather  was  when  I  set  out  with  my 
camera,  it  was  sure  to  cloud  up,  just  as  we 


i  r 


ON   THE    ftoAD   TO    LlSMORE,    IN    A    R.AIN    SlORlkt 


JUST  IRISH  87 

reached  the  castle  or  met  the  pretty  peas- 
ant girl,  who  was  only  too  willing  to  be 
taken. 

One  day  I  was  walking  from  Cappoquin 
to  Lismore,  all  unconscious  of  what 
lay  before  me,  and  just  for  wantonness  I 
took  trees  and  pictures  that  might  have 
been  in  any  country.  At  last  I  had  but  two 
films  left,  and  then  the  meeting  of  several 
droves  of  cattle  coming  from  Lismore 
told  me  that  it  must  be  Fair  Day  there. 
Just  then  lovely,  noble,  glorious  Lismore 
castle  burst  on  my  view  and  I  had  to 
take  it. 

And  then  I  came  on  the  fair  and  saw 
pictures  at  every  turn. 

Funny  little  donkeys  with  heads  quite 
buried  in  burlap  bags  the  while  they 
sought  for  oats,  gay-petticoated  and 
pretty-faced  women  in  groups,  grizzled 
farmers  that  looked  the  part,  waterbutts 
on  wheels  in  Rembrandtesque  passage- 
ways, leading  to  sunlit  courtyards  beyond 
—  regular  prize  winners  if  one  had  any 
sort  of  luck. 


88  JUST  IRISH 

And  then  a  man  with  an  ingratiating 
brogue  asked  me  to  take  him  and  his  cart 
and  almost  before  I  knew  it  I  had  taken 
a  sow  that  weighed  all  of  five  hundred 
pounds,  and  my  snapshooting  was  over 
for  the  day. 

You  may  be  sure  that  next  day  I  went 
well  prepared,  but  Fair  Day  is  only  once  a 
month,  and  fair  days  are  not  much  more 
plentiful,  and  it  rained  all  day,  and  the 
only  thing  I  saw  worth  taking  was  a  sort 
of  Don  Quixote  windmill  that  had  been 
run  by  a  horse  probably  years  before  the 
expression  :'  the  curse  o'  Crummel " 
(Cromwell)  came  to  be  used,  and  I  was 
in  a  swiftly  moving  train  and  there  was  a 
woman  in  the  way  —  oh!  there's  no  doubt 
that  camerading  is  fascinating,  but  it  is 
also  vexatious. 

Still,  my  advice  to  those  about  to  travel 
is  —  take  a  camera.  If  it's  a  very  rainy 
Sunday  you  may  want  them  to  leave  on 
an  early  train. 

Tipping  is   a   subject   that  is   always 


JUST  IRISH  89 

worth  discussing.  A  man  does  not  like 
to  give  less  than  the  usual  tip,  and  he 
ought  not  to  give  more,  because  it  makes 
it  hard  for  the  next  man,  who  may  not  be 
able  to  afford  much  of  an  expenditure. 

Tipping  in  Ireland  is  a  very  mild 
thing  compared  to  continental  tipping. 
I'll  never  forget  my  first  experience  in 
Amsterdam,  I  have  spent  many  agree- 
able and  useful  years  since  then,  and 
the  world  has  been  better  for  my  pres- 
ence, for  eighty-four  months  at  least, 
since  that  day,  but  the  comic  opera 
features  of  that  first  wholesale  tipping 
stand  out  as  if  I  heard  the  whole  thing 
last  night  at  some  Broadway  theater. 

There  were  two  of  us,  and  we  had 
spent  two  delightful  days  in  Amsterdam, 
doing  the  picture  galleries  and  confirming 
Baedeker  as  hard  as  we  could,  and  now 
we  must  give  up  the  two  huge  rooms  on 
the  first  floor  that  we  occupied  at  the 
Grand  Hotel  (to  give  it  a  name)  and  make 
our  way  to  other  Dutch  hostelries. 


90  JUST  IRISH 

I  said  to  Massenger,  "  How  about 
tipping?  Does  it  obtain  in  Holland?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Massenger,  with  a 
gleam  in  his  eye.  "  It  obtains  all  right. 
You  leave  it  to  them." 

"  How  much  shall  I  leave  to  them  ?  " 
said  I,  looking  at  the  small  coins  I  had 
withdrawn  from  my  pocket. 

'  Well,  we  have  been  royally  treated, 
and  there  are  a  good  many  waiters  and 
chambermaids  and  '  portiers,'  and  a  pro- 
prietor or  two,  and  the  equivalent  for 
boots,  and  the  'bus  driver." 

"But  how  are  we  to  get  them  all  ?  " 

"  Just  pay  your  bill  and  you'll  get  them 
all  right,"  said  Massenger.  (I  should  ex- 
plain that  whoever  travels  with  me  is 
called  Massenger.  It  saves  trouble.) 

I  did  not  quite  understand,  but  I  sig- 
nified my  intention  of  paying  my  bill,  and 
the  proprietor  or  his  steward  was  all  bows 
and  smiles,  and  handed  it  to  me,  at 
the  same  time  ringing  a  bell. 

Then  the  chorus  began  to  assemble. 


JUST  IRISH  91 

Lads  and  maidens  in  the  persons  of 
waiters  whom  I  had  never  seen,  and 
chambermaids  of  whom  I  had  never 
heard,  began  to  swarm  into  the  office. 

After  they  had  ranged  themselves  pic- 
turesquely the  boots  began  to  arrive. 
Some  from  neighboring  hotels  who  had 
heard  the  bell  came  running  in,  and 
grouped  themselves  behind  the  maids. 
Then  a  head  waiter  who  looked  like  a 
tenor  came  seriously  in  and  I  expected 
that  in  a  moment  I  would  hear : 

"  'Tis  the  very  first  of  May, 

Though  we've  not  a  thing  to  say, 
We  will  stand  here,  anyway 
Stand  awhile  and  sing." 

I  looked  at  Massenger  and  asked  him 
what  it  all  meant. 

"  It's  in  our  honor,"  said  he.  "  We've 
got  to  shell  out." 

And  sure  enough  it  was.  We  had  to 
disgorge  pro  rata  to  all  the  assembled 
ones,  and  Massenger  said  afterward  that 
he  thought  one  or  two  of  the  guests  came 
in  for  certain  of  our  gratuities. 


92  JUST  IRISH 

When  we  stepped  into  the  'bus,  quite 
innocent  of  coins  of  any  sort,  I  listened, 
expecting  to  hear: 

"  Now,  in  spite  of  rainy  day, 
We  have  gone  and  made  our  hay. 
And  I  don't  care  what  you  say, 
When  the  Yankees  come  this  way 
We  get  what  they  bring." 

They  got  it  all  right,  but  I  was  quite 
unnerved  for  some  time.  The  attack 
had  been  so  sudden. 

In  Ireland  there  is  nothing  to  equal 
this  for  system,  and  a  copper  does  make 
a  man  feel  grateful  —  or  at  least  it  does 
make  him  express  gratitude.  I  have  yet 
to  hear  curses  in  Ireland. 

But  when  you  visit  private  houses 
you  don't  know  what  to  do.  Tips  are 
expected  there  —  not  by  everybody,  but 
by  maid  and  coachman,  anyhow,  and 
you  wonder  what  is  the  right  thing  to 
do. 

To  be  sure  you  have  caused  trouble. 
You  have  placed  your  boots  outside  your 


*•*' 


t 


MILK  WAGON,  MALLOW 


1 

4    ! 
__! 


JUST  IRISH  93 

door,  just  as  you  have  latterly  learned 
to  do  at  home,  and  it  was  a  maid  who 
gave  them  that  dull  polish  that  wears 
out  in  a  half  hour.  Leave  polish  behind 
when  you  leave  America  —  that  seems,  by 
the  way,  to  be  the  motto  of  a  good  many 
traveling  Americans,  but  I  referred  to  the 
kind  that  you  can  see  your  face  in  when 
imparted  by  an  Italian. 

I  had  an  experience  when  on  my 

way  to  visit  Lady ,  in  County  Mona- 

ghan,  in  the  central  part  of  Ireland. 

Just  how  much  to  tip  a  coachman 
of  a  "  Lady  "  I  did  not  know.  A  shil- 
ling did  not  seem  enough,  and  two  shil- 
lings seemed  a  good  deal,  and  the  fellow 
did  not  have  the  arrogance  of  an  English 
coachman.  He  was  simple  and  kindly, 
and  was  willing  to  talk  to  me,  although  he 
never  ventured  a  word  unless  I  spoke  to 
him. 

When  I  had  alighted  at  Bally  bully 
station  a  ragged  man  had  seized  my 
valise,  and  on  ascertaining  my  destina- 


94  JUST  IRISH 

tion  had  carried  it  to  a  smart  jaunting 
car  driven  by  a  liveried  driver.  I  offered 
him  a  copper,  and  he  looked  at  it  and 
said,  "  Sure,  you're  too  rich  a  man  to  be 
contint  with  that." 

So  to  contint  meself  I  gave  him  six- 
pence, just  what  I  had  paid  for  having 
my  trunk  carried  one  hundred  and  eighty 
miles,  and  climbed  to  the  car. 

On  the  way  to  the  estate  of  Lady 
Clancarty  (to  give  her  a  name  also)  I 
figured  on  what  I'd  better  give.  To  give 
too  much  would  be  as  bad  as  to  give  too 
little.  Still,  if  it  cost  a  sixpence  for  my 
suit  case  to  go  a  hundred  yards,  a  three- 
mile  drive  should  be  worth  a  half  pound 
at  least. 

At  last,  just  as  we  were  driving  in  at 
the  lodge  gates,  I  foresaw  that  I  must 
make  haste  —  as  it  would  never  do  to 
hand  out  my  tip  in  the  presence  of  my 
hostess  —  so  I  reached  over  the  "  well  " 
and  handed  two  shillings  to  the  driver. 
He  seemed  surprised  and  pulled  a  bit 


JUST  IRISH  95 

hard  on  the  left  line.  There  was  a 
swerve,  a  loud  snap,  and  the  step  of  the 
car  was  broken  short  off  against  the  gate ! 

I  was  conscience-sticken,  but  said  not 
a  word  for  a  minute.  Then  the  driver 
said,  "  I've  been  driving  for  twinty-three 
years  and  niver  had  an  accident  before." 

He  had  jumped  out  and  thrown  the 
step  into  the  "  well  "  between  us. 

I  had  visions  of  the  sacking  of  the  old 
family  driver,  and  all  because  I  had  not 
known  how  much  of  a  gratuity  to  give 
him. 

But  when  I  offered  to  make  up  the 
damage  he  said,  "  Indeed  an'  I'll  be 
able  to  fix  it  myself."  And  fix  it  he  did, 
so  that  no  one  was  the  wiser. 

But  the  pain  of  those  few  moments 
when  I  expected  to  be  driven  into  the 
presence  of  my  hostess  with  the  car  a 
wreck  will  not  soon  fade. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  a  good  half 
mile  to  the  house  after  we  left  the  lodge, 
and  when  we  arrived  I  jumped  from 


96  JUST  IRISH 

the  seat  without  using  the  step,  and  no 
one  ever  knew  the  humiliation  that  had 
come  to  the  driver  after  twenty-three 
years. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

Random  Remarks  on   Things  Corkonian 

T  I  iHEY  told  me  that  Cork  was  a  very 
JL  dirty  city.  They  even  said  it  was 
filthy,  and  they  said  it  in  such  a  way 
as  to  reflect  on  Irishmen  in  general  and 
Corkonians  in  particular. 

Yes,  they  said  that  Cork  was  a  dirty 
city,  and  so  I  found  it  —  almost  as  dirty 
as  New  York.  This  may  sound  like  a 
strong  statement,  but  I  mean  it. 

When  I  arrived  in  Cork  I  saw  a  hill 
and  made  for  it  at  once,  because  after 
railway  there  is  nothing  that  so  takes 
the  kinks  out  of  a  fellow's  legs  as  a  walk 
up  a  stiff  hill.  And  anyhow  I  was  on  a 
walking  tour. 

I  arrived  at  the  top  about  sunset.  On 
reading  this  sentence  over  I  find  that  it 
97 


98  JUST  IRISH 

sounds  as  if  the  hill  was  an  all-day  jour- 
ney, but  it  was  only  a  matter  of  a  few 
squares,  and  when  I  started  the  sun  had 
long  since  made  up  its  mind  to  set. 

In  Ireland  the  sun  takes  on  Irish 
ways,  and  is  just  a  little  dilatory.  It 
always  means  to  set,  and  it  always  does 
set  in  time  to  avoid  being  out  in  the  dark, 
but  it's  "  an  unconscionably  long  time  a 
dying." 

At  the  summit  of  the  hill  I  saw  a  church 
steeple  that  appealed  to  my  esthetic 
sense,  and  I  asked  a  little  boy  what 
church  it  was. 

"  Shandon  churrch,  sirr,"  said  he  with 
the  rapid  and  undulating  utterance  of 
the  Corkonian. 

"  Where  the  bells  are  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  smiling.  "  And  over 
beyont  is  the  Lee." 

"  The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river 
Lee,"  I  quoted  at  him,  and  he  smiled 
again.  Probably  every  traveler  who  goes 
to  Cork  quotes  the  lovely  old  bit  of  dog- 


JUST  IRISH  90 

gerel,    but    the    Corkonian    smiles    and 
smiles. 

The  river  Lee  runs  through  the  center 
of  Cork,  and  at  evening  it  is  a  favorite 
place  for  fishing,  also  for  learning  to 
swim  on  dry  land. 

The  fishermen  seem  to  fish  for  the 
love  of  casting,  and  the  little  boys  swim 
on  the  pavement  —  two  pursuits  as  use- 
less as  they  are  pleasant.  Over  the 
bridge  the  fishermen  leaned,  and  cast  their 
lines  in  anything  but  pleasant  places  - 
for  the  river  is  malodorous  —  and  the 
little  boys  stood  on  benches  and  dived 
to  the  pavement,  where  they  spat  and 
then  went  through  the  motions  of  swim- 
ming. 

There  were  dozens  of  the  little  boys, 
and  most  of  them  seemed  to  be  brothers. 
Some  of  them  were  quite  expert  in  diving 
backward,  and  all  of  them  were  dirty,  but 
they  seemed  to  be  happy.  I  could  not 
help  thinking  how  soon  the  Celtic  mind 
begins  to  use  symbols,  for  it  was  easy  to 


100  JUST  IRISH 

see  that  when  the  boys  spat  it  signified  a 
watering  place  to  them.  I  dare  say  they 
were  breaking  a  city  ordinance  in  spitting, 
and  if  they  knew  that  they  were  that  much 
happier  —  stolen  sweets  are  the  sweetest. 

During  the  time  I  watched  the  setting 
sun  —  which  was  still  at  it  and,  by  the 
way,  performed  some  lovely  variations  on 
a  simple  color  scheme  in  the  sky  —  not 
even  an  eel  was  caught,  but  the  fishermen 
cast  under  the  bridge,  let  their  bait  float 
down  the  (un)  pleasant  waters,  and  drew 
in  their  lines  again  and  again  —  mute  ex- 
amples of  a  patience  that  one  does  not 
associate  with  Ireland. 

At  last  I  left  them  and  started  out  to 
find  Shandon  church,  which  seemed  but 
a  few  squares  away. 

My  pathway  led  through  the  slums, 
and  up  a  hill  so  steep  that  I  hope  horses 
only  use  it  as  a  means  of  descent.  I 
passed  one  fireside  where  the  folks  looked 
cosy  and  happy  and  warm.  It  was  a 
summer  evening,  but  chilly,  and  the 


JUST  IRISH  101 

place  into  which  I  looked  was  a  shop  for 
the  sale  of  coal.  Shoemakers'  children 
are  generally  barefooted,  but  these  people 
were  burning  their  own  coal,  and  the 
mother  and  the  dirty  children  sprawled 
around  the  store  or  home,  in  a  shadow- 
casting  way,  that  would  have  delighted 
Mynheer  Rembrandt  if  he  had  passed  by. 

I  was  struck  with  the  population  of 
Cork.  It  was  most  of  it  on  the  side- 
walk, and  nearly  all  of  it  was  under  six- 
teen. Pretty  faces,  too,  among  them, 
and  happy  looking.  I  think  that  sym- 
pathy would  have  been  wasted  on  them. 
They  had  so  much  more  room  than  they 
would  have  had  in  New  York,  and  they 
were  not  any  dirtier  —  than  New  Yorkers 
of  the  same  class. 

After  I  had  reached  the  top  of  the  hill 
I  turned  and  looked  for  Shandon  church 
and  it  was  gone.  I  asked  a  boy  what  had 
become  of  it,  and  he  told  me  that  in 
following  my  winding  way  through  the 
convolutions  known  as  streets  I  had 


102  JUST  IRISH 

gotten  as  far  from  the  church  as  I  could 
in  the  time.  He  told  me  pleasantly  just 
how  to  go  to  get  to  the  church,  and  it  in- 
volved going  to  the  foot  of  the  hill  and 
beginning  again. 

I  asked  a  number  of  times  after  that, 
and  always  got  courteous  but  rapid 
answers.  The  Irish  are  great  talkers, 
but  the  Corkonian  could  handicap  him- 
self \vith  a  morning's  silence,  and  beat 
his  brothers  from  other  counties  before 
evening. 

At  last  I  came  on  the  church,  passing, 
just  before  I  reached  it,  the  Greencoat 
Hospital  National  School,  with  its  quaint 
and  curious  (to  quote  three  of  Foe's 
words)  statues  of  a  green-coated  boy 
and  girl. 

I  asked  a  man  when  the  bells  began  to 
ring  (for  I  had  been  told  that  they  only 
rang  at  night) . 

"'Every  quar-rter  of  an  hour,  sirr, 
they'll  be  ringing  in  a  couple  of  minutes, 
sirr." 


GREEN  COAT  HOSPITAL,  CORK 


JUST  IRISH  103 

One  likes  to  indulge  in  a  bit  of  senti- 
ment sometimes,  and  I  stood  and  waited 
to  hear  the  bells  of  Shandon  that  sound 
so  grand  on  the  pleasant  waters  of  the 
river  Lee.  I  had  left  the  Lee  to  the 
fishermen  and  the  make-believe  swim- 
mers, but  the  bells  would  sound  sweetly 
here  under  the  tower  that  held  them. 

A  minute  passed,  and  then  another, 
and  then  I  heard  music  —  music  that 
called  forth  old  memories  of  days  long 
since  dead.  How  it  pealed  out  its  de- 
light on  the  (icy)  air  of  night.  And  how 
well  I  knew  the  tune: 

"  Down  where  the  Wurzburger  flows." 

No,  it  was  not  the  chimes,  but  a  nurse 
in  the  hospital  at  a  piano.  Before  she 
had  finished,  Shandon  bells  began,  but 
they  played  what  did  not  blend  with  what 
she  sang,  and  I  went  on  my  way  thinking 
on  the  potency  of  music. 

I  passed  on  down  where  the  river  Lee 
flowed,  and  the  fishermen  were  still  fish- 
ing, but  the  little  boys  had  tired  of  swim- 
ming. 


104  JUST  IRISH 

Two  signs  met  me  at  nearly  every 
corner.  One  read,  "  James  J.  Murphy 
&  Co.,"  and  the  other  "  Beamish  & 
Crawford,"  or  "  Crawford  &  Beamish," 
I  forget  which.  Both  marked  the  places 
of  publicans  (and  sinners,  I  doubt  not), 
and  both  were  brewers'  names.  The 
publican's  own  name  never  appeared, 
but  these  names  were  omnipresent. 

Again  I  thought  of  Shandon  bells, 
and  the  romantic  song,  "  Down  Where 
the  Wurzburger  Flows,"  and  leaving  the 
Lee  still  flowing  I  sought  my  hotel. 

I  would  like  to  make  a  revolutionary 
statement,  that  is  more  often  thought 
than  uttered,  but  before  I  make  it,  I 
would  like  to  say  that  there  are  two  classes 
of  travelers:  those  who  think  there  is 
nothing  in  Europe  that  compares  with 
similar  things  in  America,  and  those  who 
think  there  is  nothing  in  America  that 
can  hold  a  candle  to  similar  things  in 
Europe. 

I  hope  I  belong  to  neither  class.     If 


JUST  IRISH  105 

I  mistake  not,  I  am  a  Pharisee,  and  thank 
my  stars  that  I  am  not  as  other  men  are. 
Most  of  us  are  Pharisees,  but  few  will 
admit  it. 

I  began  being  a  Pharisee  when  I  was  a 
small  child,  and  that  is  the  time  that  most 
people  begin. 

I  kept  it  up.  In  this,  I  am  —  like  the 
multitude. 

Having  thus  stated  my  position,  let 
me  go  on  to  say,  that  I  am  perfectly  will- 
ing to  admit  that  this  or  that  bit  of  scenery 
in  France,  or  Switzerland,  or  England, 
or  Ireland,  lays  over  anything  of  the  sort 
I  ever  saw  in  America,  if  I  think  it  does, 
and  I  am  equally  willing  to  say,  that 
America  has  almost  unknown  bits  that 
are  far  better  than  admired  and  poet- 
ridden  places  in  Europe. 

Twin  Lakes  in  Connecticut  is  one  of 
them,  and  Killarney  is  a  poet-ridden  place. 

Why,  even  in  Ireland  there  are  places 
just  as  lovely  as  Killarney,  but  they  have 
not  been  written  up,  and  so  no  one  goes 
to  visit  them. 


106  JUST  IRISH 

1  felt  that  one  of  the  worst  things  about 
Killarney  was  the  American  sightseer, 
and  I  came  away  soon. 

Cook's  tourists  have  never  heard  of 
Twin  Lakes,  thank  fortune,  and  it  will 
be  some  time  before  they  (the  lakes)  are 
spoiled. 

The  Lakes  of  Killarney  are  so  beau- 
tiful that  they  are  worthy  of  the  pen  of  a 
poet,  but  the  pen  of  a  poet  does  not  make 
any  lake  more  beautiful,  and  I  am  quar- 
reling because  so  many  people  refuse  to 
believe  the  evidence  of  their  own  senses, 
and  take  their  natural  beauties  at  the 
say  so  of  another. 

There  is  a  tower  going  up  in  New  York 
at  present,  a  tower  that  with  the  exception 
of  the  Eiffel  Tower  is  the  tallest  on  earth. 

Many  persons  look  at  it,  reflect  that  it 
is  a  skyscraper,  and  then  dismiss  it  as 
therefore  hideous.  But  it  is  really  very 
beautiful,  and  seen  from  certain  vantage 
points,  it  is  architecturally  one  of  the 
glories  of  New  York. 


A    BIT    OF    KlLLARNEY 


JUST  IRISH  107 

If  it  ever  gains  a  reputation  for  beauty, 
you  will  find  persons  raving  over  it,  who 
to-day  class  it  among  the  "  hideous  sky- 
scrapers." 

A  hundred  years  ago  there  were  some 
skyscrapers  in  Switzerland,  and  they  were 
thought  to  be  hideous.  After  awhile  a 
man  with  a  poet's  eyes  and  a  courageous 
tongue  visited  them,  and  he  said  "  The 
Alps  are  beautiful." 

When  their  reputation  for  beauty  was 
established,  travelers  left  the  region  round 
about  the  Rockies  to  go  and  rave  over  the 
beauties  of  Switzerland. 

That's  all. 


CHAPTER    IX 

A  Visit  to  Mount  Mellaray 

MANY  persons  whom  I  met  in  Ire- 
land told  me  that  I  ought  to  go  to 
Mount  Mellaray  "  for  my  sins."  Mount 
Mellaray  (to  those  who  don't  know)  is  a 
Trappist  monastery,  set  among  hills  that 
would  be  at  once  the  temptation  and 
despair  of  a  colorist  in  landscape. 

To  it  go  the  brain  and  heart  weary 
from  all  countries,  and  the  good  monks 
(there's  no  doubt  that  they  are  good) 
welcome  them  whether  they  have  money 
or  not. 

They  tell  of  a  man  who  went  to 
Mount  Mellaray  and  accepted  the  hos- 
pitality of  the  inmates  and  on  his  going 
away  he  did  no  more  than  bid  them 
good  by.  Not  a  penny  did  he  leave  be- 
108 


JUST  IRISH  109 

hind  him,  although  he  had  sat  at  table 
with  the  other  guests  several  days. 

Next  year  he  came  again  for  his  soul's 
rest,  and  the  monks  received  him  as  an 
old  friend.  Those  who  were  not  under 
vows  of  silence  spoke  to  him,  the  others 
nodded  to  him,  and  once  more  he  rested 
on  the  side  of  the  purple  hills  and  partook 
of  their  hospitality. 

When  it  came  time  for  him  to  go  away 
he  left  behind  him  —  a  pleasant  impres- 
sion, but  not  a  cent  did  he  give  to  the 
cause  of  charity. 

Another  year  passed  by,  and  he  came 
again.  Hundreds  had  come  in  the  mean 
time,  and  none  so  poor  but  had  left  some- 
thing in  return  for  the  restfulness  and 
peace  that  are  to  be  had  there. 

Quite  as  an  old  friend  he  was  now  re- 
ceived and  was  made  to  feel  welcome. 
No  one  knew  who  he  was  —  perhaps  he 
was  nobody  —  but  on  his  going  away  for 
the  third  time  he  showed  that  he  had  been 
but  acting  the  part  of  an  ingrate,  for  he 


no  JUST  IRISH 

gave  the  father  who  acts  as  keeper  of  the 
gate  a  hundred  pounds. 

This  story  I  told  to  the  jarvey  who  took 
me  up  the  hilly  road  to  the  monastery,  and 
he  listened  with  interest,  and  when  I  had 
finished  he  said,  "  It's  quite  true." 

As  I  did  not  expect  to  visit  it  again  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  do  my  giving  on 
leaving  the  place,  but  my  hundred  pound 
notes  are  all  in  the  future,  and  therefore 
no  one  can  ever  tell  a  similar  tale  of  me. 

I  must  confess  that,  being  a  Protestant, 
I  felt  a  little  compunction  about  going  to 
the  place,  but  I  had  been  assured  that  my 
sect  would  make  no  difference,  that  the 
fathers  were  glad  to  receive  all  who  came, 
and  that  I  would  be  as  well  treated  as 
though  I  were  a  saint. 

On  my  way  up  my  jarvey  told  me  of  the 
amount  of  good  that  the  monks  do,  not 
only  in  a  spiritual,  but  in  a  material  way, 
by  providing  work  for  the  able-bodied 
men  of  the  vicinity. 

We  passed  a  neat  stone  cottage  with 


JUST  IRISH  111 

ivy  growing  on  it,  and  a  vigorous  fuchsia 
tree  blooming  in  the  garden,  and  he  told 
ine  that  it  was  a  government  cottage  and 
rented  for  the  absurd  sum  of  a  shilling  a 
week. 

"  And  how  much  can  a  man  earn  in  the 
fields  ?  "  said  I. 

"  A  matter  of  ten  shillings  a  week," 
was  his  reply. 

Query:  If  a  man  gets  ten  dollars  a 
week  in  New  York  and  lives  in  a  crowded 
Harlem  flat  for  which  he  pays  at  least  five 
dollars  a  week,  is  he  as  well  off  as  this 
Irishman,  in  his  native  land,  with  all  the 
fresh  air  in  the  world,  fowls  and  fresh 
eggs,  and  butter  of  his  wife's  making,  and 
one  of  the  loveliest  views  imaginable 
before  him  ? 

But  you'll  find  the  man  in  the  neat  little 
government  cottage  anxious  to  fly  to  the 
land  of  dollars  —  and  when  he's  there 
he'll  hand  out  more  dollars  to  his  land- 
lord for  inadequate  accommodations  than 
he  could  earn  at  home  in  a  month  of 
Sundays. 


JUST  IRISH 


Human  nature  is  human  nature,  and 
the  daisies  in  the  field  over  the  pond  are 
always  more  beautiful  than  the  ones  that 
lie  at  your  feet. 

I  was  received  at  the  monastery  by  a 
monk,  who  on  learning  that  I  wished  to 
become  a  guest,  took  me  over  to  the  guest 
house,  and  there  a  white-robed  father 
took  my  surname,  and  I  began  to  feel  that 
I  had  renounced  the  world,  and  that  per- 
haps I  was  trying  something  that  I  would 
regret,  and  wouldn't  mamma  come  and 
get  me. 

But  the  bearded  man  before  me  was 
kindly,  and  when  I  told  him  (not  wishing 
to  sail  under  false  colors)  that  I  was  a 
Protestant,  he  told  me  that  it  was  a  fast 
day,  and  had  I  dined. 

Fortunately  I  had  eaten  heartily  at 
noon.  "  If  ye  have  not  dined  we  can  give 
you  something  substantial,"  said  he,  but 
I  decided  that  it  would  be  better  to  be 
treated  as  the  other  guests  were  to  be 
treated,  and  so  I  told  him,  and  he  said 


JUST  IRISH  113 

that  at  six  o'clock  there  would  be  tea,  and 
that  at  eight  I  would  retire  to  my  room, 
and  at  ten  all  lights  must  be  out. 

It  was  raining  dismally,  but  he  said 
that  I  could  go  for  a  walk  in  the  garden, 
or  stay  in  my  room,  or  go  to  the  "  smoke 
shed,"  to  smoke  a  pipe  or  a  cigar. 

I  chose  the  smoke  shed  as  I  understood 
there  were  other  human  beings  there,  and 
although  I  had  only  been  in  the  monastery 
five  minutes,  I  felt  the  need  of  compan- 
ionship. 

After  a  brother  had  taken  my  traps  to 
my  room,  I  went  out  to  the  smoke  shed, 
and  found  there  some  ten  or  twelve  guests, 
five  or  six  of  them  priests,  and  all  Catho- 
lics but  myself. 

They  were  very  quiet  as  I  came  up, 
and  I  feared  to  speak  above  a  whisper 
myself,  but  a  jolly-looking  priest,  seeing  a 
newspaper  sticking  out  of  my  raincoat 
pocket,  said:  "  Is  that  to-day's  paper?  " 
and  on  my  saying  it  was,  he  asked  me  if 
he  might  borrow  it,  and  then  he  stood  up 
in  front  of  them  all  and  said : 


114  JUST  IRISH 

'  The  news  of  the  day  .  .  .  .  '  Irish 
Ireland.  A  Leaguer's  Point  of  View.' 
'The  French  Trunk  Horror.'  'The 
Bachelor  Tax,'  discussed  by  Mr.  Dooley." 

"  Rade  that,  father,"  said  a  young  chap 
with  a  twinkling  eye. 

"  Sure  it's  in  dialect,"  said  the  priest 
with  a  smile,  and  his  own  brogue. 

"  Never  mind.  Go  ahead.  'Tis  a 
dreary  day." 

The  paper  was  the  Dublin  Independ- 
ent, and  in  a  moment  more  I  was  listening 
to  the  familiar  humor  of  the  funniest  man 
in  America,  and  that  in  a  monastery,  of 
all  places. 

'  This  here  pa-aper  says,'  said  Mr. 
Hennessy,  *  that  they're  goin'  to  put  a 
tax  on  bachelors.  That's  r-right.  Why 
shudden't  there  be  a  tax  on  bachelors  ? 
There's  one  on  dogs.'  ' 

Loud  was  the  laughter  in  the  smoke 
shed  at  this  sally,  and  none  laughed  louder 
than  those  professional  bachelors,  the 
priests. 


STREET  IN  YOUGHAL 


JUST  IRISH  115 

'  I  suppose,'  said  Mr.  Dooley,  '  that 
next  year  ye  expect  to  see  me  throttin' 
around  with  a  leather  collar  an'  a  brass 
tag  on  me  neck.  If  me  tax  isn't  paid 
th'  bachelor  wagon'll  come  around,  an' 
th'  bachelor  catcher'll  lasso  me  an'  take 
me  to  the  pound,  an'  I'll  be  kept  there 
three  days,  an'  thin,  if  still  unclaimed, 
I'll  be  dhrowned,  onless  th'  pound  keeper 
takes  a  fancy  to  me.'  '  (Loud  laughter 
by  priests  and  laymen.) 

The  ice  thus  broken  by  my  friend 
Dunne,  I  was  soon  in  conversation  with 
the  group,  and  discovered  two  compatriots 
from  Indiana,  one  a  native  of  Ireland  re- 
turning to  visit  it  once  more  before  he  de- 
parted, the  other  his  son. 

Vesper  bells  broke  up  the  talk,  and  I 
went  with  the  rest  to  chapel. 

After  vespers  came  "  tea,"  which  I  had 
supposed  would  be  literally  nothing  else, 
but  there  was  the  most  delicious  graham 
bread  I  have  had  since  I  came  to  Ireland, 
and  unlimited  milk.  There  was  no  but- 


116  JUST  IRISH 

ter,  as  it  was  a  fast  day.  This  I  regretted 
keenly. 

Talk  went  on  among  us  all  until  a 
bearded  monk  in  white  came  in  and  began 
to  read  passages  from  Thomas  a  Kempis. 
His  enunciation  was  peculiarly  pure,  and 
I  doubt  not  that  he  was  a  gentleman  born. 
It  was  a  pleasure  to  hear  such  English. 
While  he  read  we  were  all  silent. 

After  supper  we  went  out  to  the  garden, 
and  in  a  sheltered  place  (although  we  did 
not  need  a  shelter,  as  the  fickle  rain  had 
stopped)  those  who  wished  played  a 
spirited  game  that  consisted  of  tossing 
stones  into  a  little  pocket  of  earth.  One 
of  the  priests  was  an  adept,  and  he  carried 
all  before  him. 

In  such  simple  pleasures,  or  in  walking, 
the  evening  was  spent  until  it  came  time 
to  go  to  chapel  again. 

One  of  my  companions  (and  they  were 
there  from  all  parts  of  Ireland,  and  you 
might  hear  the  Scotch  accent  of  the  north, 
the  pure  Dublin  and  Wicklow  Elizabethan 


JUST  IRISH  117 

English,  the  slightly  thickened  Waterford 
variety,  and  the  hurried  talk  of  the  Cork- 
onian,  as  well  as  other  styles  I  could  not 
place  —  probably  west  coast  dialects, 
mournful  and  slow)  asked  me  what  I 
thought  of  Ireland,  and  I  told  him  my 
impressions  had  been  tremendously  fav- 
orable so  far.  He  said  that  a  man  who 
had  returned  not  long  since  told  him  that 
Ireland  was  hopelessly  behind  the  times, 
and  I  told  him,  for  his  comfort,  that  to 
take  one  instance  in  which  Ireland  was 
up  to  date,  the  tram  service  in  Dublin  was 
far  ahead  of  that  of  New  York,  both  in 
the  elegance  of  its  rolling  stock,  its  cheap- 
ness, and  the  civility  of  its  employes.  He 
was  much  amused  at  the  idea  of  horse  cars 
in  New  York.  (Electric  cars  play  an  im- 
portant part  in  all  the  large  Irish  cities, 
and  a  ride  on  the  top  of  one  to  Howth,  a 
lovely  suburb  of  Dublin,  is  worth  every 
bit  of  the  eight  cents  it  costs). 

They  have  yet  to  introduce  the  transfer 
system,  but  in  other  particulars,  like  Mr. 


118  JUST  IRISH 

O'Reilly,    "they're    doin'    dam'    well." 
All  this  I  told  him. 

At  eight  I  sought  my  room,  where 
there  was  reading  matter  suitable  to 
the  place,  but  the  candle  was  not  con- 
ducive to  extended  reading  unless  I  held 
it  close  to  the  book,  and  then  it  dazzled 
me,  and  at  nine  o'clock  I  was  in  my  bed, 
and  until  two  in  the  morning  the  house 
was  quiet,  save  for  a  snore  here  and  there. 
But  at  two  the  bells  began  to  ring,  and 
kept  it  up  at  intervals  all  through  the 
night.  I  was  told  this,  but  "  tired  na- 
ture's sweet  restorer,  balmy  sleep,"  came 
to  my  aid,  and  I  dreamed  it  was  a  feast 
day  and  that  all  the  monks  were  sitting  at 
the  breakfast  table,  singing  at  each  other 
joyfully. 

Next  day  was  a  feast  day  (to  my  relief) . 
I  was  up  at  six,  but  it  was  some  time  after 
that  that  I  heard  steps  in  the  hall.  I  had 
looked  out  of  the  window  from  time  to 
time,  hoping  to  see  some  one  in  the  gar- 
den. The  table  of  the  duties  of  the  day 


JUST  IRISH  119 

hung  in  my  room,  and  I  noticed  that 
breakfast  was  at  nine.  Luckily  I  had 
some  chocolate,  or  I  might  have  felt  I  was 
likely  to  faint  by  the  wayside. 

I  did  not  go  to  early  devotion,  and  when 
I  heard  the  footsteps  in  the  hall  I  opened 
my  door  and  found  that  it  was  Father 
David,  the  keeper  of  the  gate,  going 
around  to  see  if  any  were  still  in  bed. 
When  he  saw  me,  he  said  to  the  brother 
who  accompanied  him,  "  Oh,  it  doesn't 
make  any  difference  with  him."  Then 
to  me,  "  Would  you  like  to  walk  in  the 
garden  ? "  I  said  that  I  would,  and 
walked  round  and  round  its  lonely  paths 
for  over  an  hour,  now  and  then  eating  a 
square  of  chocolate  to  keep  off  death. 

But  before  eight  the  good  father  came 
and  asked  me  if  I'd  like  to  see  the  in- 
terior of  the  monastery,  and  he  showed 
me  the  bakeshop  with  its  most  up  to  date 
ovens,  and  oh,  how  hungry  the  smell  of 
baking  made  me,  and  the  steam-saw,  and 
the  creamery,  and  the  library  with  its  old 


120  JUST  IRISH 

newspaper  telling  to  Irishmen  that  Crom- 
well had  departed  to  his  rest  the  day 
before.  Not  very  sorrowful  news,  that, 
I  imagine,  to  the  Irishman  of  that  day. 

And  Father  David  showed  me  and  the 
other  Americans  an  incubator,  and  ex- 
plained the  process,  with  an  innocent  cir- 
cumstantiality that  we  respected.  Why 
tell  him  that  the  woods  were  full  of  in- 
cubators in  America  ?  The  things  that 
appealed  most  to  him,  however,  was  the 
big  circular  saw  that  would  saw  up  a  log 
of  wood  in  a  "  minyit." 

With  his  permission  I  took  a  photo- 
graph of  a  beautiful  Irish  cross  in  the 
graveyard,  but  when  I  suggested  my  tak- 
ing him,  he  averted  his  palms  at  me. 
Such  vanities  were  not  for  him. 

At  breakfast  there  were  eggs  and  milk 
and  tea,  and  delicious  butter  in  abundance, 
and  the  reading  of  some  holy  book  by 
Father  David,  which  did  not  stop  all 
conversation.  Being  a  feast  day,  there 
was  one  priest  who  felt  his  tongue  could 


JUST  IRISH  121 

be  loosened,  and  he  kept  up  an  under- 
current of  conversation,  to  Father  David's 
annoyance,  but  it  was  a  human  touch  that 
was  not  out  of  place. 

The  monks  are  themselves  vegetarians, 
but  a  school  is  run  in  connection  with  the 
monastery,  and  the  students  are  allowed 
meats. 

At  nine  my  jarvey  called  for  me  and 
took  me  to  the  boat  for  Youghal,  and  I 
made  my  offering  and  shook  hands  with 
Father  David,  and  felt  that  I  had  been 
benefited  by  my  stay  in  the  retreat.  I 
even  felt  that  had  I  more  time  at  my  dis- 
posal, I  would  stay  on  for  several  days, 
talking  with  the  guests,  pitching  stones 
into  the  hole,  and  looking  at  the  rolling 
landscape  and  the  awe-inspiring  hills 
behind  the  chapel  spire. 

One  thing  in  America  had  interested 
Father  David  —  the  Thaw  trial  —  and 
he  wanted  to  know  if  Thaw  would  be 
hanged. 

One  day  the  only  American  news  in  the 


122  JUST  IRISH 

'Derry  papers  was  to  the  effect  that  Evelyn 
Thaw  thought  of  going  on  the  stage. 

Not  our  art,  or  our  literature,  or  our 
suppression  of  the  boss,  but  the  Thaw 
trial,  is  the  thing  that  has  made  a  deep 
impress  on  Great  Britain  and  Ireland, 
and  everywhere  I  am  asked  to  give  an 
opinion. 

The  Thaw  trial  was  a  matter  of  mo- 
ment to  the  good  old  man,  with  his  in- 
cubators and  his  steam  saw  and  his 
absence  of  personal  vanity. 

As  half  way  down  the  mountain  I 
turned  and  looked  back  at  the  spire 
against  the  somber  hills  (for  it  had  begun 
to  rain)  I  wished  that  my  camera  would 
take  them  for  me,  but  I  knew  that  snap- 
shots of  hills  are  like  literary  snapshots 
—  inadequate. 


CHAPTER  X 

A  Dinner  I  Didn't  Have 

THE  best  laid  schemes  of  mice  and 
men  aft  gang  aglee,  or  words  to  that 
effect,  and  in  a  small  village  in  County 
Wicklow  I  fared  differently  from  what 
had  been  my  expectation. 

I  had  a  letter  to  a  literary  man  of  whom 
I  had  heard  nothing  but  pleasant  words, 
and  I  looked  forward  to  spending  several 
hours  with  him. 

I  had  dispatched  my  letter  of  introduc- 
tion to  him  over  night,  intending  to  perch 
on  his  door  sill  during  a  flight  from  Dublin 
further  south:  Waterford  and  Cork. 

The  day  was  beautiful  (whenever  the 

clouds  rolled  away  from  before  the  sun) 

and  as  I  left  my  grips  in  the  station  and 

fared  forth  I  imagined  how  pleasantly  we 

123 


124  JUST  IRISH 

would  talk  together  on  matters  and 
things,  how  soon  we  would  find  we  had 
mutual  friends,  how  possible  it  was  that 
one  or  the  other  of  us  would  commit  the 
bromide  of  "  It's  a  small  world  after  all, 
isn't  it  ?  " 

It  was  a  long  time  before  the  dinner 
hour,  but  if  he  invited  me  to  stay  on  and 
dine  I  would  certainly  do  it.  Tasteful 
napery,  handsome  women,  light  and  joy- 
ous talk,  delicate  viands  and  sparkling 
wines  — 

"  Plaze,  sorr,  would  ye  help  a  poor  man 
to's  dinner.  I've  walked  from  Ovoca  the 
day  an'  devil  a  bit  or  a  sup  is  in  me." 

A  beggar! 

The  idea  of  a  man  who  never  saw  me 
before  asking  me  and  evidently  expect- 
ing me  to  help  him  to  a  dinner. 

But  of  course  when  you  meet  a  fellow 
out  in  the  country  away  from  professional 
beggars  you  naturally  feel  like  helping 
him,  particularly  if  the  Irish  weather  is 
so  fine  that  it  hasn't  rained  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  — 


THATCHED  COTTAGE,  WICKLOW 


JUST  IRISH  125 

"  Oh,  thank  ye,  sorr.  May  your  bed 
in  heaven  be  aisy  an'  may  ye  oversleep 
on  the  day  of  judgment." 

A  kind  wish. 

As  I  walked  on  1  couldn't  help  thinking 
how  similar  was  his  case  to  my  own.  In 
all  probability  he  had  the  price  of  a  meal 
in  his  pocket  when  he  met  me  and  I  too 
had  the  price  of  several  meals  in  my  pocket 
and  even  as  he  had  "  braced  "  a  total 
stranger,  so  I  was  about  to  do  the  same 
thing,  only  I  expected  intellectual  talk, 
a  dinner,  possibly  a  drive  around  the 
country,  and  when  all  was  said  and  done 
I  wouldn't  be  able  for  my  quid  pro  quo 
to  call  down  such  a  blessing  as  he  had 
given  me. 

At  last  I  came  to  the  lodge  of  Heather- 
dale  and  asked  if  Mr.  W  -  -  was  in. 

He  was  not.  He  had  gone  by  an  early 
train  to  Dublin  and  would  not  be  back 
until  seven. 

Oh,  such  a  noise  of  falling  air  castles. 

My  letter  had  been  to  him,  not  to  his 
wife. 


126  JUST  IRISH 

I  could  not,  or  at  least  I  felt  that  I 
could  not  present  my  card  to  her  and  ex- 
plain that  I  was  very  much  disappointed, 

and  would  Mrs.  W kindly  entertain 

me  with  intellectual  talk  and  food  and 
drink. 

I  turned  sadly  away  and  put  on  my 
raincoat  (for  it  had  begun  to  rain  dismally 
as  soon  as  the  lodgekeeper  had  told  me 

Mr.  W was  out)  and  made  my  way 

back  to  the  station,  intending  to  take  the 
next  train. 

The  urbane  station  master,  resplendent 
in  a  gay  new  uniform,  told  me  kindly  but 
firmly  that  there  was  no  train  until  seven 
o'clock,  that  that  train  did  not  go  as  far 
as  Waterford,  only  to  Wexford,  and  that 
my  through  ticket  to  Waterford  was  good 
for  this  day  only  and  would  be  waste  card- 
board when  the  morning  dawned,  and  I 
took  the  first  train  from  Wexford  there. 

That  meant  the  price  of  an  excellent 
dinner  thrown  away 

An   excellent   dinner.     It   was   twelve 


JUST  IRISH  127 

o'clock;  time  to  begin  to  think  of  a  dinner 
of  some  kind. 

No  (said  the  station  master)  there  was 
no  hotel  in  the  place.  I  might  get  some- 
thing at  some  farmhouse,  but  no  dinner 
anywhere. 

And  Mr.  W  -  -  in  Dublin  for  the  day. 
What  good  had  the  tramp's  blessing  done 
me? 

I  left  the  station  and  walked  toward  the 
village.  At  last  I  came  to  a  "  public  " 
and  there  I  found  my  tramp  drinking 
porter  with  gusto  —  but  nothing  else. 
His  hunger  had  evidently  departed.  Per- 
haps the  same  thing  that  had  put  it  to 
flight  would  allay  mine. 

But  the  first  incivility  that  I  have  re- 
ceived since  I  came  to  Ireland  was  offered 
me  here.  The  proprietress  of  the  public 
laughed  at  me  and  said  that  they  had 
nothing  but  bread  in  the  house  —  and 
she  evidently  did  not  care  to  part  with  that. 
'  There's  a  good  hotel  at  Rathdrum, 
sorr,"  said  the  tramp  to  me.  "  It's  not 


128  JUST  IRISH 

five  miles  away  an'  the  road  light  as  a 
feather,  barrin'  the  mud." 

I  had  no  notion  of  going  five  miles 
on  the  light  road  on  the  light  break- 
fast I  had  eaten  —  and  no  certainty  that 
there  would  be  a  dinner  at  Rathdrum, 
so  I  left  the  public,  and  the  rain  having 
stopped  and  the  sunshine  having  come 
out  with  a  most  businesslike  air,  as 
much  as  to  say,  "  See  here,  you  clouds 
have  been  running  things  altogether  too 
much  lately;  it's  now  my  turn  at  the 
wheel,"  I  set  out  as  blithely  as  I  could 
(with  the  thought  of  my  letter  of  intro- 
duction crossing  Mr.  W on  his  way 

to  town  and  me  a  homeless  wanderer)  and 
before  long  I  came  to  a  little  whitewashed 
cabin  in  front  of  which  a  handsome  old 
woman  in  a  man's  cap  was  bending  over 
some  flowers. 

"  Good  morning.  Can  you  let  me  have 
something  to  eat  ?  " 

"  Sure  'tis  little  I  have,"  said  she,  with 
a  smile  that  took  five  years  off  her  age. 


JUST  IRISH  129 

"  Some  fresh  eggs,  perhaps,  or  some 
milk?" 

"  Aye,  I  can  give  ye  those,  but  me 
house  is  no  place  for  the  likes  - 

6  That'll  be  just  what  I  want,"  said  I, 
and  she  went  into  the  house  and  bade  me 
follow. 

Fresh  eggs  and  unlimited  milk  are  not 
the  same  as  brill  and  young  lamb  and 
sauterne  and  cigars  and  witty  conversa- 
tion, but  when  you  are  hungry  from  out- 
door exercise  they  are  not  so  bad. 

And  Mrs.  Kelly,  like  every  other  man, 
woman,  and  child  in  the  whole  of  Ireland, 
had  relatives  in  America. 

She'd  a  son  there  long  since  and  Ja-mes 
just  turrned  twenty-one  had  gone  there 
this  summer  to  the  "  states  of  Indiana. 
Did  I  know  the  states  of  Indiana  ?  " 

I  told  her  I  did,  that  I'd  been  to  them 
many  a  time.  And  where  did  "  Ja-mes 
go  to  —  to  what  city  ?  " 

To  Lafayette  (with  as  French  an  ac- 
cent as  you'd  wish)  and  was  I  ever  there  ? 

I  was.     Her  face  lighted  up. 


130  JUST  IRISH 

If  I  went  there  again  would  I  ask  for 
Ja-mes  Kelly  an'  he'd  be  her  son  an*  as 
fine  a  boy  as  ever  left  Ireland  (with  a  true 
Dublin  roll  of  the  r). 

Still  thinking  of  the  dinner  I  had  not 
had  at  Heatherdale  house  I  asked  her  if 
she  knew  Mr.  W . 

"  Sure  I  do,  an'  the  finest  man  in  all 
Ireland.  Me  boy  Ja-mes  worked  there 
at  gardening  and  whin  he  was  leaving  for 
America  Mr.  W  -  -  gave  a  dinner  for 
him  to  all  the  villagers  and  gave  him  a 
watch  with  his  name  on  it  and  *  in  remim- 
brance  of  Heatherdale  '  in  it.  Oh,  yes,  a 
fine  man  an'  humble.  Sure,  if  Jimmy'd 

be  sick  for  a  day  it's  Mr.  W would  be 

down  here  in  me  cottage  askin'  afther  him 
an'  could  he  be  doing  anny thing  for  him. 

"  Humbleness.  That  what  the  blissed 
Lord  taught  us.  He  could  have  been 
borrn  in  a  palace,  but  he  was  borrn  in  a 
stable  in  Bethleham.  Are  you  a  Cath- 
olic?" 

"  No " 


JUST  IRISH  131 

"  Ah,  never  mind.  There's  arl  kinds 
of  good  people  - 

"  Is  Mr.  W a  Protestant  ?  " 

"  Sure,   I   dunno,"   was  Mrs.   Kelly's 
guarded  reply.     "  He  goes  to  the  Pro- 
testant church,  but  I  don't  know  what  he 
is,  on'y  he's  a  good  man  —  none  better 
in  all  Ireland. 

'  The  good  Lord,"  she  continued,  as 
she  filled  up  my  cup  with  rich  milk  (she 
had  no  tumblers  at  all,  she  said),  "  taught 
us  to  be  kind  to  one  another  and  to  be 
humble,  the  same  as  He  was  kind  and 
humble,  although  He  could  have  had  a 
palace  if  He'd  chosen,  and  if  we  keep 
His  commandments  we'll  all  go  to  heaven, 
but  if  we  don't  (here  the  good  Mrs.  Kelly 
lowered  her  voice)  we'll  be  damned  in 
everlasting  fire.  The  Lord  tells  us  so." 

1  told  her  that  I  had  heard  such  things, 
that  I  had  a  grandmother  who  taught 
me  all  about  "Bethleham"  and  the 
rest 

"  Oh,   the  good   woman,"   said   Mrs. 


JUST  IRISH 


Kelly,  feelingly.  "  Well,  it's  true.  Be 
kind  and  be  good  and  be  humble  and 
ye'll  be  rewarrded." 

After  I  had  finished  the  lunch  she 
asked  me  if  I  could  take  a  picture  of  her. 

I  told  her  that  I  could,  but  she  must 
come  out  of  doors.  Off  came  her  man's 
cap  and  she  arranged  her  wisps  of  white 
hair  and  washed  her  face  and  then  said, 
"  Be  sure  to  get  me  eyes  good  and  clear. 
I  do  take  a  fairly  (very)  good  picture,  and 
me  eyes  always  come  out  fine." 

The  good  woman  had  eyes  she  might 
well  be  proud  of  in  spite  of  her  desire  to 
be  humble,  and  they  danced  and  snapped 
with  joy  as  I  leveled  the  camera  at  her  and 
took  her  photograph. 

All  the  afternoon  I  climbed  the  beauti- 
ful heather  purpled  hills  in  the  vicinity 
with  her  youngest  son,  a  boy  of  nineteen, 
eating  wild  fraochans,  a  kind  of  whortle- 
berry, and  had  "  afternoon  tea  "  with  her 
at  six  and  then  went  on  to  catch  my  train. 

The  son  was  a  very  intelligent  boy  and 


WICKLOW  PEASANTS 


•i 


JUST  IRISH  133 

I  was  struck  with  his  easy  and  correct 
use  of  English.  He  told  me  that  it  was 
easier  to  understand  me  than  an  English- 
man, and  I  took  it  as  a  compliment,  for  I 
certainly  never  heard  better  English 
spoken  than  is  talked  in  the  Dublin  dis- 
trict by  rich  and  poor  alike.  London 
and  New  York  should  come  to  Dublin 
and  vicinity  to  learn  the  proper  pronuncia- 
tion of  English. 

As  I  left  the  village  I  felt  that  I  had  lost 
one  good  time  to  have  another,  and  the 
day  on  the  hills  made  me  sleep  like  a  top. 


CHAPTER  XI 

What  Ireland  Wants 

BEFORE  I  went  to  Ireland  I  imagined 
the  Irish  standing  in  a  crowd  with 
their  right  hands  pointing  to  heaven  and 
all  of  them  demanding  home  rule.  But 
talk  about  shades  of  opinion  and  political 
differences  at  home,  why,  it's  nothing  to 
the  mixture  here. 

I  meet  a  man  to-day  and  as  1  shake  his 
hand  I  tell  him  with  heartfelt  sympathy 
that  I  hope  he'll  get  home  rule,  that  most 
of  us  are  with  him  in  the  United  States, 
and  he  wrings  my  hand  and  tells  me  that 
American  sympathy  is  the  thing  that  has 
kept  Ireland  up. 

My  bosom  swells  with  pride  and  I  feel 
that  I  have  hit  on  just  the  right  phrase 
to  use. 

134 


JUST  IRISH  135 

Next  day  I  meet  another  Irishman,  a 
Protestant  from  Belfast,  and  as  I  wring  his 
hand  with  emotional  fervor,  I  tell  him  that 
1  hope  he'll  get  home  rule,  and  he  pulls  his 
hand  from  my  grasp  to  bring  it  down  on 
desk  or  counter  or  table  with  impetuosity, 
as  he  says,  "  Ireland  doesn't  want  home 
rule.  If  the  phrase  had  never  been 
coined  Ireland  would  be  happy  to-day. 
What  Ireland  wants  is  less  sympathy 
from  outsiders.  If  my  child  bumps  his 
head  and  begins  to  cry,  I  say,  *  Sure  it's 
nothing.  Brave  boys  like  to  bump  their 
heads,'  and  he  begins  to  laugh  and  for- 
gets about  it.  But  if  a  stranger  says, 
'  Poor  Patsy.  It  must  hurt  awrfully,' 
then  he  sets  up  a  howl  about  it  and  fancies 
he's  injured.  What  Ireland  needs  is  to 
forget  her  troubles  and  her  political  dis- 
abilities and  work.  An  Irish  working- 
man  in  Ireland  is  the  laziest  man  alive. 
When  he  goes  to  America  or  Canada  or 
Australia  and  is  released  from  priestly 
authority  he's  a  hard  worker  and  a  sue- 


136  JUST  IRISH 

cess,  but  Paddy  in  the  fields  is  always 
looking  for  saints'  days  —  and  finding 
them  —  and  when  he  finds  them  he  takes 
a  holiday." 

I  am  silent  because  I  really  know  so 
little  about  it,  but  next  day  I  meet  an- 
other Protestant  and  I  say  to  him,  "  I 
suppose  it's  Rome  rule  that  is  killing 
Ireland  ?  " 

He's  up  in  the  air  at  once  and  tells  me 
that  it  is  the  priests  who  are  interesting 
the  peasants  in  the  revival  of  industries 
long  dormant. 

"  Aren't  the  priests  fine-looking  men  ?  " 
says  he. 

'  Yes,"  breaks  in  another  Irishman, 
"  and  they  ought  to  be  the  fathers  of 
families.  All  that  good  blood  going  to 
waste  and  their  lines  ending  with  them 
instead  of  enriching  the  blood  of  Ireland 
in  future  generations.  That's  what  celi- 
bacy does." 

Another  Irishman  chimes  in,  "  Oh,  the 
priests  are  not  such  a  fine  lot,  The  con- 


JUST  IRISH  137 

stabulary  are,  I'll  admit,  but  the  most  of 
them  are  as  useless  as  the  priests.  Most 
of  their  time  is  spent  training  canaries, 
for  there's  little  else  for  them  to  do  in  the 
country  districts.  But  the  priests;  sure 
a  man  says,  '  Oh,  Jimmy's  no  good  at 
all  at  all.  Let's  make  a  priest  of  him.'  : 

"  It's  folly  you're  talking,"  says  the  one 
who  spoke  for  the  priests.  *  There's  not 
a  finer  body  of  men  in  Ireland  than  the 
priests." 

"  Oh,"  says  the  other,  with  Irish  wit, 
;<  there's  white  sheep  in  every  fold,  I'll 
admit,  but  if  Ireland  was  free  from  poli- 
tical and  religious  domination,  she'd  be 
able  to  stand  upright  and  she  wouldn't 
need  home  rule." 

All  of  which  is  very  perplexing  to  the 
man  who  came  to  Ireland  thinking  that 
with  the  exception  of  a  few  Orangemen  all 
Ireland  was  working  morning,  noon,  and 
night  for  home  rule. 

Next  day  I  meet  a  man  I  know  to  be  a 
Protestant  and  I  say  to  him  in  my  easy- 


138  JUST  IRISH 

going  way  (being  all  things  to  all  men 
when  I  am  traveling,  in  order  to  save 
wear  and  tear),  "  The  Catholic  religion 
is  keeping  Ireland  back,  is  it  not  ?  " 

He  looks  at  me  for  a  moment  and  then 
a  spiritual  light  illumines  his  eyes  and  he 
says:  "  Protestantism  is  always  death  to 
arts.  Look  as  Shakespeare,  the  last 
Catholic  that  England  had,  as  you  might 
say,  and  look  at  his  work  with  its  artistry, 
its  absence  of  dogmatism,  and  then  look 
at  Protestant  and  tiresome  Wordsworth 
and  Protestant  and  didactic  Tennyson. 
Spenser  was  a  great  artist.  Spenser  was 
a  Catholic.  Catholicism  emancipates  the 
artistic  side  of  a  man's  nature,  puritan- 
ism  seals  it  up,  dams  it,  condemns  him  to 
preach  sermons. 

*  The  Irish  are  the  most  artistic  people 
on  the  face  of  the  earth  when  Protestant- 
ism has  not  been  allowed  to  stamp  their 
idealism  out  of  them." 

"  But  I  thought  you  were  a  Protestant. 
Then  I  suppose  that  you  think  that  the 
priests " 


JUST  IRISH  139 

"  I  think  that  the  priests  ought  never 
to  be  allowed  to  tamper  with  education. 
Spiritually  they  release  Irishmen  from 
puritan  fetters  (I  speak  as  a  Protestant 
and  the  son  of  a  Protestant)  but  politically 
and  educationally  they  are  millstones 
about  Ireland's  neck." 

I  leave  him  and  going  to  Hibernia  Hall 
in  Dublin,  where  the  work  of  Irish  in- 
dustries is  being  displayed,  and  where 
stands  temporarily  St.  Gaudens's  splendid 
statue  of  Parnell,  and  I  see  there  Augus- 
tine Birrell,  whom  I  believe  to  be  one  of 
Ireland's  warmest  and  truest  friends. 

I  am  talking  to  a  handsome  six-foot 
priest. 

"Ah,  there's  Birrell,"  I  say  to  him. 
'  Yes,"  says  he  with  a  twinkle  in  his 
Irish  eyes,  "  'twould  be  a  fine  chance  to 
drop  a  little  dynamite  under  him." 

I  leave  the  hall  hurriedly  and  listen 
outside  for  the  explosion,  meanwhile 
wondering  why  a  priest  who  wants  home 
rule  hates  Birrell,  who  has  tried  to  give 
Ireland  a  modified  version  of  it, 


140  JUST  IRISH 

I  meet  a  literary  Catholic  and  ask  him 
whether  home  rule  would  mean  Rome 
rule  and  he  tells  me  that  it  would  not;  that 
the  Catholics  would  not  stand  for  priestly 
interference  with  politics ;  that  the  priests 
themselves  would  not  desire  to  interfere. 

Next  day  I  ask  a  jarvey  if  he  wants 
home  rule  and  he  says,  "  Begorry,  higher 
wages  would  be  better.  I'd  not  be  both- 
erin'  with  home  rule  if  there  was  enough 
to  keep  me  sons  busy." 

"  Well,  Michael,  would  home  rule 
mean  Rome  rule  ?  " 

"  Sure  it  would.  Isn't  the  pope  the 
head  of  the  church  ?  " 

Ireland  seems  to  be  a  house  divided 
against  itself. 

I  like  the  father  of  the  family  very 
much.  We'll  say  he  comes  from  the 
south  of  Ireland  and  is  a  Catholic.  He's 
a  witty  man,  a  hospitable  man,  a  cheery 
man,  but  won't  speak  to  his  oldest  son, 
because  he's  a  Belfast  Unionist  and  be- 
lieves in  letting  well  enough  alone, 


1 


LOST  IN  His  LUNCH,  MAU.OW,  COUNTY  KERRY 


I 


JUST  IRISH  141 

Now  the  eldest  son  is  a  delightful 
fellow.  A  little  more  reserved  than  his 
southern  father,  but  just  as  hospitable, 
just  as  cheery  —  almost  as  witty.  The 
mother  is  a  Sinn  Feiner,  an  idealist  of  the 
idealists.  She  believes  that  Irishmen 
ought  to  withdraw  from  Parliament.  She 
urges  her  son,  who  is  in  Parliament,  to 
resign,  to  boycott  England,  to  get  his 
brother  members  of  Parliament  to  come 
home  and  form  a  National  Council  in 
Dublin.  She  doesn't  believe  in  war,  but 
she  hates  England  with  an  animosity  that 
is  positively  amusing  to  one  whose  for- 
bears fought  England  and  had  done  with 
the  fight  long  ago.  She  won't  speak  to 
her  daughter,  who  believes  in  working 
for  home  rule  in  season  and  out  of  season 
in  London. 

The  mother  is  witty  and  cheery,  and, 
oh,  so  hospitable,  but  when  I  visit  the 
daughter  I  don't  mention  the  old  lady  to 
her,  for  in  spite  of  the  ingrained  love  for 
parents  that  is  almost  as  strong  in  an 


142  JUST   IRISH 

Irishman  as  it  is  in  a  Chinaman,  she  says 
very  sharp  things  about  her  unpractical 
mother.  But  when  we  leave  politics 
alone,  she  is  cheery  and  witty,  and  always 
as  hospitable  as  she  can  be. 

Now,  if  by  means  of  arousing  a  truly 
national  spirit  (and  the  Gaelic  League  is 
going  about  it  in  the  right  way)  this 
family  of  witty  and  cheery  and  hospitable 
people  can  be  induced  to  sink  minor 
differences  and  act  together  they'll  get 
what  they  want  —  whatever  that  is.  And 
then  won'  t  they  be  the  happy  family  ? 

And  I'm  sure    I  do  hope  with  all    my 
heart  that  they'll  get  it. 

For  they  won't  be  happy  till  they  get  it. 


CHAPTER   XII 

A  Hunt  for  Irish  Fairies 

'T'LL  niver  forget  wan  gintleman  that 
JL  kem  here  from  America.  He'd  been 
borrn  here,  but  had  gone  to  Chicago  whin 
he  was  a  lad,  an'  he  had  made  a  fortune. 

"  He  had  hundreds  under  him,  an'  he 
told  me  he  had  niver  touched  a  drop  of 
liquor.  Oh,  he  was  the  kind  man.  He 
hired  me  car  every  day  he  was  here,  an'  he 
said  anny  time  I  wanted  to  sind  anny  of 
me  sons  over,  to  sind  them  to  him  an'  he'd 
take  them  on  an'  pay  them  good  wages. 

"  Oh,  he  was  the  ginerous  man,  too 
ginerous  in  fact.  He'd  scatter  his  money 
like  water  whin  he'd  be  in  liquor  - 

'  Why,  I  thought  you  said  he  never 
touched  a  drop,  Michael." 

"  Oh,"  with  a  toss  of  the  head.  "  Sure 
143 


144  JUST;  IRISH 

that  was  in  America.  Bein'  on  a  holiday 
here  he  tasted  it,  an'  likin'  the  taste  he 
kep'  on. 

"  Sure  he'd  fling  money  out  be  the 
handfuls  if  I'd  let  him.  I  told  him  if  he 
done  that  the  news  of  it  would  spread  an' 
some  of  the  wilder  ones  would  demand  it 
of  him,  an'  wance  I  refused  to  go  anny 
further  till  he'd  promise  to  stop  throwin' 
money  away  --  half  soverigns,  mind  ye. 

"  Ah,  but  he  was  the  kind  man,  drunk 
or  sober.  The  day  before  he  left  —  an' 
he  was  here  two  or  three  weeks  huntin'  for 
his  birthplace  — he  said: 

"  '  Michael,  I've  drank  too  much,  but  it 
tasted  good.  After  to-day  not  a  drop  I 
touch,  an'  me  goin'  back  to  America.' 

"  Sure,  I  hope  he  didn't,  for  he  had  a 
fine  business  of  manufactures  of  some  sort, 
an'  he  says: 

'  Sind  them  along,  Mike,  when  they 
does  be  old  enough  an'  I'll  give  them  good 
jobs.  Only  they  must  1'ave  liquor  alone.' 

"  Ah,  a  kind  man  he  was  an'  a  true 


JUST  IRISH  145 

American.  Wance  I  met  Larrd  Kinmare, 
an'  I  took  off  me  hat  to  him.  '  Who's 
that  ?  '  says  he.  '  Land  Kinmare,'  says 
I.  'Why  do  you  take  off  your  hat  to  him?' 
says  he;  '  he's  only  a  man  like  yourself.' 
I'll  never  forget  that.  Only  a  man  like 
meself." 

I  asked  this  same  jarvey  if  he  would  like 
to  see  home  rule. 

"  Sure,  better  wages  would  be  better." 

There  are  many  like  him  in  Ireland, 
men  of  the  practical  kind,  who  would 
rather  see  prosperity  than  home  rule,  and 
who  evidently  do  not  believe  the  two  are 
synonymous  terms. 

Perhaps  a  little  more  of  this  jarvey's 
talk  will  not  be  uninteresting. 

'  What  do  you  think  of  King  Edward, 
Michael?" 

He  looked  at  me  seriously.  "  He's  not 
had  a  thri'l  yit,  but  he  seems  a  nice  man. 
When  he  was  Prince  of  Wales  he  was  here 
to  visit  with  his  mother,  the  Queen  of  Eng- 
land, and  he  wint  to  a  nunnery,  an'  him  a 


146  JUST  IRISH 

Protestant,  an'  he  kep'  his  hat  off  his  head 
all  the  time  he  was  in.  An'  him  a  Protes- 
tant, mind  you.  He  seems  a  nice  man, 
but  he  hasn't  had  a  thri'l  yit." 

There's  simplicity  for  you.  One  need 
not  have  the  acknowledged  tact  of  the  best 
king  in  Europe  to  keep  off  his  hat  in  a 
nunnery,  but  Michael  had  treasured  the 
anecdote  forty  years  as  the  measure  of  a 
ruler's  merit. 

But  I  am  treading  on  dangerous  ground 
and  it  would  be  better  to  venture  on  fairy 
ground. 

One  needs  to  live  long  among  the  Irish 
peasants  to  get  at  their  folklore.  They 
are  invariably  agreeable  to  strangers,  as 
Michael  has  shown  himself  to  have  been 
to  me,  and  are  more  than  willing  to  talk 
about  America  and  the  sorrows  of  Ireland, 
but  if  the  subject  of  fairy  folk  is  broached 
they  seem  to  be  anxious  to  change  the 
subject. 

I  was  fortunate  enough  to  get  a  little 
insight  into  their  beliefs,  but  before  I 


JUST  IRISH  147 

touch  on  the  topic  I  would  like  to  scatter  a 
few  thoughts  on  the  subject  of  Irish  wit. 

Here  I  have  set  down  a  conversation  of 
a  typical  Irishman,  but  you  will  notice 
that  there  is  nothing  witty  in  what  he  says. 
In  books  he  is  witty,  and  in  Scotland  the 
Scotchman  is  witty,  as  I  had  occasion  to 
notice  many  times  last  year  when  I  was 
there,  but  in  Ireland  (I  record  personal 
impression)  the  Irishman  is  not  witty,  as  I 
met  him  in  the  peasant  class. 

I  have  conversed  with  dozens  and 
scarcely  a  witty  reply  have  I  had.  Humor 
often,  but  wit  seldom.  I  sometimes  think 
that  it  is  because  I  have  used  the  wrong 
tactics.  Perhaps  if  I  had  bantered  them 
they  would  have  retaliated. 

I  fancy  that  their  reputation  for  wit  is 
largely  of  English  manufacture,  and  that 
the  Englishman  calls  it  forth  by  his  un- 
doubted feeling  of  superiority.  The  wit 
is  at  his  expense. 

We  were  passing  a  little  opening  in  the 
woods  the  day  I  rode  with  Michael  and  I 
said  to  him: 


148  JUST  IRISH 

"  That  would  be  a  fine  place  for  fairies." 

He  quickly  turned  his  head  and  looked 
at  me. 

"  So  it  would,"  said  he,  "  but  they're  all 
gone  now.  Whin  I  was  a  boy  the  old 
folks  did  be  talkin'  of  them,  but  there's 
none  of  them  now." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  I  sympathetically, 
'*  but  a  friend  of  mine  in  Connecticut,  an 
Irishman,  told  me  he'd  been  led  by  them 
into  a  bog  with  their  false  lights." 

"  Oh,"  said  Michael,  quick  as  a  wink, 
"  so  have  I.  They'd  lade  you  to  folly 
the  light,  an'  the  first  thing  ye'd  know  ye'd 
be  up  to  your  waist  in  a  bog.  But  there's 
none  of  them  hereabouts  now." 

And  that  ended  Michael's  remarks 
about  fairies.  And  that  was  further  than 
most  of  them  would  go  until  I  met  an  old 
woman  on  the  west  coast.  She,  after  I 
had  gained  her  confidence,  talked  quite 
freely. 

I  asked  her  if  she  had  ever  seen  any  of 
the  red  leprechauns  (I  am  not  sure  of  the 


JUST  IRISH  149 

spelling)  that  are  so  mischievous  to  house- 
wives and  are  so  fond  of  cream,  and  while 
she  had  not  seen  any  herself  a  friend  of 
hers  had  seen  two  of  them. 

'  Wan  had  a  red  cap  on  an'  the  other 
was  dressed  all  in  green  and  they  was 
wrestlin'  in  a  field. 

"  An  wance  I  looked  out  of  the  winder," 
she  had  grown  absorbed  in  her  own  talk 
now  —  "  an'  I  saw  over  there  on  the 
mountain  side  a  fair  green  field  that  never 
was  there  before  "  -  the  mountain  was 
bald  and  rocky  and  bleak  -  "  an'  in  it 
was  a  lot  of  young  lads  and  gerruls,  all 
dressed  gayly,  the  lads  and  the  gerruls 
walking  like  this  "  -  illustrating  by  un- 
dulatory  motions  -  "  and  full  of  happi- 
ness. 

"  Oh,  yes;  I've  seen  the  little  folk,  but 
I  don't  mind  them  at  all.  The  sight  of 
them  comes  to  me  when  I'd  not  be  think- 
ing of  it,  and  it's  little  I  care." 

She  tossed  her  head  in  evident  supe- 
riority, perhaps  feeling  that  I  might  think 


150  JUST  IRISH 

it  folly  for  a  woman  as  old  as  she  to  see 
things  so  out  of  the  ken  of  an  ordinary 
mortal.  But  I  showed  an  interest  that 
was  perfectly  genuine,  and  she  went  fur- 
ther into  her  revelations. 

"  Wance  I  was  lookin'  out  of  this  same 
winder,  an'  a  queen  of  the  air  came  out  of 
the  heavens  ridin'  on  a  cloud.  Oh,  she 
was  the  most  beautifully  made  woman  I 
ever  saw,  with  a  stride  on  her  like  a  queen. 

"  She  had  a  short  skirt  on  her,  and  her 
calves  were  lovely,  and  around  her  waist 
was  a  sash  with  a  loose  knot?in  it  for  a 

IW 

dagger,  an'  the  dagger  raised  in  her  right 
hand  —  an'  a  crown  upon  her  head." 
"  And  did  she  look  angry  ?  " 
"  Indeed  she  didn't.  A  beautiful  face 
she  had,  an'  she  come  straight  for  this 
winder,  an'  when  she  was  almost  before  it 
I  put  up  my  hands  to  my  eyes,  for  I 
thought  that  if  she  was  coming  out  of  the 
other  space  and  I  was  the  first  she  met 
here  she  might  do  harm  to  me,  and  'twas 
well  not  to  look  at  her  —  and  when  I 
opened  my  eyes  again  she  was  gone. 


L 


i 
1 

t  i 

A  SIDE  STREET,  WEXFORD 

JUST  IRISH  151 

"  Oh,  never  will  I  see  so  finely  made  a 
woman  again;  the  calves  of  her  beautiful 
legs,  and  the  arm  raised  high  above  her 
head  like  a  queen." 

Margaret  stood  looking  out  of  the 
window  at  the  mountain  opposite,  and  I 
said  nothing  for  fear  she  would  stop  talk- 
ing. After  a  few  moments  she  went  on: 

'  Wan  day  I  saw  an  elephant  over  on 
the  mountain  side  an'  him  filling  his  trunk, 
with  water  for  a  long  journey  —  Oh,  it's 
manny  the  thing  I  see,  but  I  don't  mind  if 
I  never  see  them,  only  they  come  to  me." 

Filling  one's  trunk  with  water  for  a  long 
journey  would  not  appeal  to  a  drummer, 
but  this  flippant  thought  I  did  not  extend 
to  Margaret.  Perhaps  she  would  not 
have  understood,  as  drummers  are  bag- 
men on  the  other  side.  That  is  they  are 
bagmen  in  books.  In  hotels  they  are 
commercial  men. 

Margaret  was  not  yet  through  telling 
me  the  things  she  had  seen.  I  was  told 
that  there  were  some  people  that  she 


152  JUST  IRISH 

would  not  talk  to  on  occult  subjects,  fear- 
ing their  badinage,  but  her  sincerity  was 
so  evident  that  I  could  not  have  joked 
with  her  on  the  subject  if  I  had  thought 
of  doing  so. 

*  Wance  I  saw  the  present  King  Ed- 
ward, an'  him  about  to  be  crowned,  an' 
he  was  in  the  heavens  lying  on  a  bed,  and 
his  wife  standing  near,  dressed  in  a  dress 
with  short  sleeves  an'  point  lace  on  them, 
an'  I  said  to  me  master,"  -  Margaret 
was  living  in  service,—  '  Sure  he'll  not  be 
crowned  this  time.' 

"  An'  that  very  evening  the  news  came 
that  the  King  was  ill,  and  he  was  not 
crowned  that  time  at  all.  An'  the  pitch- 
ers in  the  papers  afterward  showed  the 
Queen  in  point  lace  as  I  had  seen  her." 

Afterward  I  talked  to  the  gentleman  for 
whom  this  ancient  woman  kept  house, 
and  he  said  there  was  no  end  to  the  queer 
things  she  had  seen.  He  told  me  that 
once  she  saw  in  "  the  heavens  "  a  funeral 
cortege  issuing  from  a  smallish  house, 


JUST  IRISH  153 

with  big  black  horses,  plumed  and  draped, 
and  drawing  a  hearse,  and  in  it  either  the 
pope  or  the  queen. 

"  Some  one  high  up,"  Margaret  said. 

That  evening  came  the  news  of  the 
death  of  Queen  Victoria. 

Of  course  this  is  "  merely  "  second 
sight,  but  if  you  don't  believe  in  such 
things  you  don't  feel  like  scoffing  when 
people  see  visions  that  come  true. 

I  was  unfortunate  enough  not  to  meet 
a  Galway  woman,  an  ignorant  peasant, 
who  saw  a  vision  that  shaped  itself  around 
a  ruined  castle. 

She  said  to  my  informant  (one  of  the 
leaders  in  the  Gaelic  revival)  that  while 
she  was  looking  at  the  castle  one  day  a 
band  of  young  gentlemen  on  horseback 
and  strangely  dressed  came  riding  up  to 
the  castle,  and  in  the  windows  of  it  were 
many  handsome  women,  gayly  dressed 
and  with  their  hair  brushed  up  from  their 
foreheads,  and  they  were  laughing  and 
talking. 


154  JUST  IRISH 

And  when  the  young  horsemen  came 
to  the  ditch  that  was  around  the  castle  a 
platform  that  was  laid  against  the  wall 
was  let  down  by  chains,  and  over  the 
bridge  thus  made  the  gay  young  men 
rode  and  joined  the  chattering  ladies. 

This  was  a  woman  who  would  not  have 
heard  of  moats  and  drawbridges,  and  but 
little  of  the  castle  remained  save  the  four 
walls.  She  had  seen  a  vision,  so  my  in- 
formant, a  woman  of  forceful  intellect, 
told  me  —  and  I  believed  it  then,  and  half 
believe  it  now.  If  one  has  visions  why  not 
see  them  ?  I  wish  I  might  myself. 

But  it  is  very  hard  for  the  traveler  to 
get  at  these  revelations.  The  natives  are 
shy  of  strangers,  who  like  as  not  do  not 
believe  in  fairies  —  never  having  seen 
Tinker  Bell  —  and  they  will  not  talk. 

But  for  my  part  I  hope  the  time  will 
come  when  it  will  be  proved  beyond  a 
doubt  that  there  are  fairies,  and  if  the 
revelation  ever  does  manifest  itself  at  all, 
doubting  Thomases  and  the  rest,  I  am 


JUST  IRISH  155 

sure  that  their  habitat  will  prove  to  be 
Ireland. 

And  when  they  are  proved  to  exist,  re- 
member that  I  said  I  believed  in  them. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

In  Galway  with  a  Camera 

GALWAY  comes  as  near  as  any  Irish 
city  that  I  ever  saw  to  rivaling 
New  York's  East  Side  for  dirtiness,  and 
yet  a  fair-minded  observer  would  be  com- 
pelled to  tell  Galway,  when  the  time  for 
awarding  the  leather  medal  came,  that 
she  was  only  a  close  second. 

This  does  not  so  much  mean  that  New 
York  is  dirtier  than  I  realized  she  was 
when  I  was  there  as  it  means  that  Ireland 
is  not  as  dirty  as  English  and  Irish  and 
American  writers  have  pictured  it. 

Perhaps  in  some  parts  of  Ireland  the 
pig  still  sleeps  in  the  room  with  the  family, 
but  as  a  faithful  chronicler  of  actual  sights 
I  cannot  say  that  I  saw  such  a  sight  in  any 
of  the  numerous  slums  and  villages  I 
156 


JUST  IRISH  157 

visited  in  twenty  counties.  I  hate  to 
destroy  so  poetic  an  illusion. 

There  was  something  idyllic  in  the 
thought  of  a  pink  little  pig  and  a  pink  little 
boy,  the  two  of  them  the  pink  of  neatness, 
lying  side  by  side  in  a  happy -hearted  Irish- 
man's cabin,  while  pig  and  boy  and  Irish- 
man starved  to  death,  but  the  truth  was 
something  better  than  that.  There  were 
pigs  and  little  boys,  but  they  were  not 
neatly  pink  and  they  were  not  starving, 
and  the  old  man  did  not  swing  a  shillelagh 
or  sing  songs  as  I  was  passing  by. 

Shillelaghs  were  never  so  plentiful  as 
they  are  now,  but  they  are  made  to  supply 
the  foreign  demand  for  them,  and  the 
Irishman  is  amused  and  perhaps  a  bit 
contemptuous  as  he  sees  Americans,  with 
never  a  drop  of  Irish  blood  in  them,  buy- 
ing shillelaghs  to  take  home  for  the  sake  of 
sentiment. 

I  wish  I  might  write  that  I  saw  evi- 
dences of  destitution  on  every  side  —  it 
would  please  the  sentimentalists  —  but 


158  JUST  IRISH 

I  did  not.  There  were  beggars,  but  not 
so  many  as  I  had  feared  I  would  see,  and 
they  did  not  chase  me  any  harder  than 
youngsters  have  chased  me  in  City  Hall 
Park  in  New  York  demanding  a  cent  to 
buy  sterilized  milk. 

In  Sligo  I  was  followed  by  a  poor 
woman  carrying  a  baby,  and  as  she  raised 
her  hand  for  alms  her  shawl  dropped  off 
and  disclosed  her  nakedness  to  the  waist, 
but  I  was  assured  by  a  Sligo  gentleman 
that  she  was  a  professional  beggar  from 
out  of  town,  and  that  possibly  the  baby 
was  not  hers,  and  I  know  for  a  fact  that 
she  went  to  a  public  house  with  the  money 
I  gave  her. 

And  all  the  time  I  was  fumbling  in  my 
pocket  for  coppers  she  was  wishing  me 
happy  days.  She  stands  out  in  my  recol- 
lection as  the  most  abject  beggar  I  saw. 

But  in  Galway  there  is  dirt  and  squalor 
and  it  is  picturesque.  There  in  the  Clad- 
dagh  one  meets  with  old  hags  who  are  hid- 
eous enough  and  Spanish  looking  enough 


JUST  IRISH  159 

to  have  just  left  Velasquez's  studio,  where 
one  can  imagine  them  posing  as  models  for 
some  masterpiece  of  the  great  realist. 

Barefooted  they  are,  and  the  homely 
ones  have  a  great  desire  to  be  photo- 
graphed. Many  and  many  were  the 
pretty  women  I  saw  in  Ireland,  but  my 
camera  recorded  but  few  of  their  linea- 
ments, while  I  was  asked  more  than  once 
by  plain  women  to  take  their  pictures. 

One  nailed  me  as  I  was  passing  her 
vegetable  shop  in  the  Claddagh.  She  was 
cross-eyed,  poor  thing,  and  in  a  land  where 
pretty  features  are  as  plentiful  as  black- 
berries, she  was  plain,  but  she  besought 
me  to  take  her  picture. 

Now,  when  a  woman  asks  you  to  photo- 
graph her  you  don't  feel  like  refusing  her, 
and  I  was  too  much  of  a  novice  to  make  a 
feint  at  snapping  the  shutter  and  passing 
on,  so  I  stopped  and  tried  to  see  a  picture 
in  the  carrots  and  cabbages  that  were  dis- 
played at  the  door. 

Such  a  simpering,  conscious  face  as  she 


160  JUST  IRISH 

displayed!  I  tried  to  engage  her  in  talk 
so  that  she  would  at  least  look  naturally 
homely,  but  it  was  no  use.  Every  time 
my  finger  strayed  up  to  the  little  lever  her 
lips  would  become  set  in  a  smile,  one  eye 
would  look  at  the  camera  and  one  would 
look  at  me,  and  she  would  become  the  in- 
carnation of  consciousness. 

At  last  I  snapped  her  and  passed  on. 
After  that  I  took  good  care  to  hurry  past 
plain  women. 

The  day  before,  at  a  railway  station, 
I  had  gone  in  to  get  a  bit  of  lunch  and  dis- 
covered that  one  of  the  waitresses  was  a 
little  beauty.  The  thought  came  into  my 
head,  What  a  model  for  "  An  Irish 
Beauty,"  just  as  one  of  the  others,  who 
had  no  claim  to  beauty,  said,  "  Take  me 
picture  ?  " 

1  told  her  that  I  was  not  a  professional, 
looking  all  the  while  at  the  pretty  one, 
but  she  suggested  that  I  take  all  three 
waitresses  just  for  fun,  and  in  order  to  get 
the  beauty  at  any  cost  I  assented,  and  the 
girls  stood  in  expectant  attitudes. 


A  STRING  OF  FISHERMEN,  GALWAY 


3 

^B   ^B   ^B  *i* 


JUST  IRISH  161 

The  beauty  was  so  luscious  looking  that 
the  other  two  were  simply  obliterated  in 
the  finder,  and  I  felt  myself  lucky  at  having 
such  a  chance  to  carry  away  a  permanent 
impression  of  Irish  maidenhood. 

My  hand  was  raised  to  the  lever,  in  an- 
other instant  the  face  would  be  mine,  but 
just  then  the  door  opened  and  a  man 
came  in  to  buy  a  measly  sandwich. 

One  of  the  girls  left  the  group  —  I  could 
see  that  in  the  finder,  but  I  snapped  has- 
tily and  then  looked  up. 

It  was  the  beauty. 

I  have  the  other  two.  They  are  un- 
developed. 

In  the  Claddagh  a  pretty  little  child 
came  up  to  me  and  asked  me  to  take  her 
"  piccher,"  hoping  for  some  coppers  in 
payment. 

I  nodded  my  head  to  her,  but  a  bare- 
footed derelict  ahead  of  me  heard  her  re- 
quest, and  wheeling  around  suddenly  bade 
the  child  be  off  and  offered  to  pose  for  me 
herself. 


162  JUST  IRISH 

Velasquez  would  have  jumped  at  the 
chance,  but  I  am  not  Velasquez  and  I 
shook  my  head  and  hurried  on. 

The  vehemence  of  the  old  woman's  vi- 
tuperative assault  on  the  little  girl  had 
collected  a  lot  of  loungers  of  both  sexes, 
and  I  was  besieged  for  pictures,  the  pretty 
little  girl  saying  incessantly,  "  I  as't  you 
firrst.  I  as't  you  firrst.  las'tyoufirrst." 

I  managed  to  make  her  understand  that 
if  she  walked  on  far  enough  I  would  take 
her  picture,  and  only  one  other  heard  her, 
another  little  girl  who  was  pretty  enough 
to  grace  a  film. 

These  two  kept  on,  while  the  others 
dropped  away  when  they  saw  I  was  ada- 
mant. 

And  when  my  models  were  far  enough 
from  the  others  to  enable  me  to  get  them 
before  it  was  suspected  what  I  was  at  I 
snapped  them  and  put  my  hand  into  my 
pocket  to  get  up  a  couple  of  coppers  and 
found  nothing  but  a  sixpence. 

Of  course  the  children  could  not  change 


JUST  IRISH  163 

it,  and  I  could  not  very  well  divide  it,  so  I 
appealed  to  some  fishermen  who  were 
lounging  on  the  quay,  asking  them  if  they 
could  give  me  coppers  for  a  sixpence. 

They  gave  me  to  understand  that  both 
coppers  and  sixpences  were  strangers  to 
them,  and  evidently  felt  that,  as  a  "  rich 
American  "  I  could  easily  give  each  child 
a  shilling.  But  this  would  have  been  to 
get  the  whole  pack  on  me,  for  they  already 
smelt  money  and  were  coming  up. 

So  I  gave  the  sixpence  to  the  one  who 
had  first  spoken  to  me  and  told  her  to  keep 
fourpence  for  herself  and  to  give  tuppence 
to  her  little  friend. 

I'm  afraid  they  came  to  blows  over  it. 
As  for  me,  I  left  the  picturesque  Claddagh 
and  saw  it  no  more. 

It  was  that  same  morning  that  I  had 
seen  the  entire  population  lining  one  of 
the  narrowest  streets  in  that  part  of  Gal- 
way,  and  there  I  got  shot  after  shot  of  the 
picturesque  groups. 

I  asked  what  they  were  waiting  for,  and 


164  JUST  IRISH 

one  of  the  mackerel  selling  and  barefooted 
Velasquez  women  told  me  that  an  Ameri- 
can circus  was  coming. 

I  felt  it  was  worth  waiting  to  see  an 
American  circus  in  Galway. 

The  circus  was  called  "  Buff  Bill's  Wild 
West  Show."  Not  Buffalo  Bill,  mind  you, 
but  Buff  Bill. 

For  a  long  time  I  waited  and  at  last  my 
patience  was  rewarded. 

I  knew  just  what  it  would  be.  There 
would  be  fifty  or  sixty  cowboys  on  their 
broncos,  a  bevy  of  female  sharpshooters, 
and  the  Deadwood  stage;  and  for  the  cir- 
cus part  of  it  an  elephant  or  two  and  the 
$10,000  beauty,  followed  up  by  dens  of 
wild  beasts  and  representatives  of  all  the 
countries  of  the  world. 

At  last  music  was  heard.  The  band 
was  approaching.  Around  a  bend  in  the 
street  came  the  usual  crowd  of  small  boys 
and  girls  running  ahead. 

Then  came  a  yellow  wagon,  with  a  cow- 
boy band  discoursing  the  latest  New  York 
favorite. 


WAITING  FOR  THE  CIRCUS,  GALWAY 


JUST  IRISH  165 

Next  came  one  dreadful  dwarf,  made 
up  as  a  hideous  clown.  Behind  him  rode 
an  ordinary  negro,  not  costumed  in  any 
special  manner.  He  was  enough  novelty 
as  he  was. 

And  behind  these  two  rode  a  man  of  the 
toothpowder  vender  type,  with  long  hair, 
boiled  shirt,  sombrero,  and  no  necktie. 

He  was  Buff  Bill. 

And  that  made  up  the  parade. 

It  was  worth  waiting  for,  if  only  to  see 
what  it  is  that  constitutes  a  wondrous 
spectacle  to  a  small  boy. 

Fifty  years  from  now  some  prosperous 
Chicagoan  will  take  his  grandson  to  see  a 
four-mile  parade  of  some  great  circus  of 
the  period,  with  half  a  hundred  elephants, 
a  thousand  noble  horsemen,  and  scores  of 
gilded  chariots;  and  when  the  small  boy 
voices  his  rapture  the  old  man  will  say 
with  sincerity: 

:<  It's  pretty  good,  I  suppose,  but  you 
ought  to  have  seen  the  circus  that  came  to 
Galway  when  I  was  a  boy  of  eight.  That 


166  JUST   IRISH 

beat  any  circus  I've  ever  seen  since.  I 
couldn't  sleep  for  weeks  thinking  about 
it." 


XIV 

The  New  Life  in  Ireland 

NO  one  can  be  in  Ireland  long  without 
realizing  that  when  sturdy,  practical 
John  Bull  forcibly  married  dreamy  Hi- 
bernia,  with  her  artistic  temperament,  it 
was  a  very  foolish  marriage,  and  as  a  good 
American  I  could  have  predicted  trouble 
from  the  very  start.  John  Bull  is  accus- 
tomed to  be  obeyed  at  the  drop  of  the 
hat,  and  Hibernia,  for  all  her  dreaminess, 
is  a  lady  of  spirit  and  will  not  become 
a  willing  slave. 

John  Bull  has  no  more  knowledge  of  the 
real  needs  and  capabilities  of  this  Irish 
wife  of  his  than  the  average  American  has 
of  the  real  needs  and  capabilities  of  an 
Indian,  and  the  result  of  the  union  has 
been  a  series  of  bickerings  that  show  John 
167 


168  JUST   IRISH 

up  in  his  worst  light  and  that  do  not  serve 
to  call  out  the  most  agreeable  aspects  of 
his  unfortunate  wife's  nature. 

He  suspects  her,  and  what  good  woman 
will  stand  being  suspected  by  her  husband 
without  resentment?  In  her  tempera- 
mental qualities  —  qualities  that  could  be 
cultivated  to  express  something  noble  - 
he  sees  only  idleness  and  shiftlessness.  He 
treats  his  wife  as  a  child,  and  the  wife  who 
is  treated  as  a  child  becomes  a  mighty  poor 
mother. 

That  Hibernia  is  a  failure  as  a  mother 
is  shown  by  the  fact  that  thousands  of  her 
sons  are  still  willing  and  even  anxious  to 
leave  her  instead  of  staying  and  showing 
by  their  industry  and  sobriety  and  willing- 
ness to  make  the  most  of  the  opportunities 
that  undoubtedly  exist  in  Ireland,  that  they 
are  capable  of  developing  and  governing 
their  native  land  without  interference  of 
any  kind  from  John  Bull. 

Ordinarily  I'm  quite  opposed  to  divorce, 
and  I  know  that  Catholics  abhor  it,  but  it 


JUST  IRISH  169 

seems  as  if  Hibernia  ought  to  get  a  decree 
against  John  Bull  on  the  plea  of  incom- 
patibility of  temper.  And  I  wouldn't 
advise  Hibernia  to  rush  into  marriage 
again  after  she  gets  her  freedom. 

But  through  what  courts  she  is  to  get 
her  decree  is  beyond  my  knowledge.  She's 
a  most  attractive  lady  and  she  has  fertile 
farms  and  some  say  undeveloped  mines, 
and  there  is  certainly  land  enough,  setting 
aside  the  fact  ofjownership,  to  support  all 
the  sons  who  have  stayed  by  her. 

Every  Irishman  in  America  who  loves 
Ireland,  and  I  can't  imagine  that  there 
are  any  who  do  not,  ought  to  advise 
against  further  immigration.  Ireland 
needs  every  able-bodied  man  to  help 
carry  on  the  work  there  is  to  do  —  a  work 
that  the  Gaelic  League  is  doing  so  much 
to  foster. 

The  Gaelic  League  with  its  fostering 
of  the  artistic  spirit  that  is  dormant  in  the 
Irish  nature,  and  that  already  finds  ex- 
pression in  the  weaving  of  rugs  and  in 


170  JUST  IRISH 

embroidery  and  in  bookbinding  and  the 
making  of  stained  glass,  and  the  Irish 
Agricultural  Organization  Society,  with 
its  introduction  of  modern  scientific 
methods  of  farming,  its  model  hospitals 
and  schoolhouses  and  dwellings  —  these 
movements  are  waking  great  interest 
among  the  younger  people.  And  Ireland 
cannot  afford  to  part  with  a  single  man  or 
woman  from  now  on. 

The  study  of  Gaelic  increases  year  by 
year,  and  whereas  in  former  times  Irish- 
men, subdued  by  the  English  spirit,  pun- 
ished their  children  if  they  were  caught 
talking  Gaelic,  now  Irishmen  encourage 
them  and  they  are  freely  learning  Gaelic 
in  all  parts  of  Ireland.  This  movement 
cannot  help  revivifying  a  national  spirit. 

In  a  railway  carriage  I  talked  with  some 
young  women  who,  with  their  brothers, 
were  returning  from  a  three  days'  fast  and 
an  all  night  vigil  at  a  little  village  near 
Bundoran.  They  were  of  course  Roman 
Catholics.  They  asked  me  if  I  was  going 


i 
I 

|  • 
GAELIC  SIGN,  DONEGAL 

I     1 

1 

JUST  IRISH  171 

to  the  national  festival  about  to  be  held  in 
Dublin,  the  Oireachtas,  and  when  I 
found  out  what  it  meant  1  told  them  that 
I  was,  and  asked  them  if  they  were  mem- 
bers of  the  Gaelic  League. 

"Indeed  we  are,"  said  one,  and  her  eyes 
glowed  with  enthusiasm  as  she  said  it. 

"And  do  you  speak  Gaelic  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes.  We've  learned  it,  you  under- 
stand, learned  it  since  growing  up." 

They  were  heart  and  soul  in  the  new 
movement  that  it  is  hoped  will  regenerate 
and  cultivate  and  spiritualize  Ireland,  and 
while  I  was  talking  to  them  and  felt  their 
sincerity  and  ardor,  I  was  sure  that  the 
Gaelic  League  was  doing  more  than  all 
the  politicians  ever  could. 

It  is  not  the  Catholics  only  that  have 
joined  this  movement;  it  is  non-sectarian. 
I  talked  with  a  young  drug  clerk  in  a 
northern  town  and  he  "had  the  Irish" 
(could  talk  Gaelic) ,  and  wrote  his  name  in 
Gaelic  characters,  but  he  was  a  Protestant. 
He  offered  to  give  me  a  line  to  a  well- 


172  JUST  IRISH 

known  Dublin  literary  man,  which  shows 
how  democratic  the  movement  is. 

To-day  you'll  meet  with  a  land-owning 
aristocrat  who  is  interested  in  what  the 
league  is  doing,  and  to-morrow  you'll  meet 
a  jarvey  who  is  learning  Gaelic,  and  the 
next  day  a  young  lady  of  gentle  birth  who 
is  teaching  the  poor  children  of  the  neigh- 
borhood how  to  weave  rugs,  and  then 
you'll  meet  an  artist  who  was  formerly 
a  land  owner  and  a  Protestant,  and  who 
was  one  of  the  first  to  sell  his  property  to 
his  tenants  under  the  Wyndham  act  - 
and  being  an  artist  and  not  a  business  man 
he  got  ruinous  prices  for  it  —  and  has  been 
forced  ever  since  to  rely  on  his  brush  for 
his  support.  He,  too,  is  heart  and  soul  in 
the  movement. 

Now  when  the  yeast  permeates  the 
lump  to  such  an  extent  there  is  bound  to 
be  a  rising  —  but  of  the  peaceful  kind. 

"Pat,"  in  his  "Economics  for  Irish- 
men," says,  "Were  I  a  priest,  I  should, 
I  think,  regard  it  as  a  sin  on  my  soul  every 


JUST  IRISH  173 

time  a  young  person  emigrated  from  my 
parish  while  I  might  have  shown  him  how 
he  could  have  made  an  excellent  living 
at  home." 

It  must  strike  every  American,  no 
matter  whether  he  is  a  Protestant,  an 
atheist,  an  agnostic,  or  a  Roman  Catholic, 
so  long  as  he  is  open  minded,  that  the  size 
and  evident  costliness  of  the  churches  in 
the  country  districts  is  out  of  all  propor- 
tion to  the  costliness  of  the  houses  of  the 
peasants. 

In  a  poor  community  money  that  is  put 
into  costly  bricks  and  stone  that  might 
have  been  put  into  books  and  bread  is 
money  inadequately  expended,  even  if 
Ruskin  rise  from  his  grave  to  contradict 
me.  A  better  temple  to  God  than  a 
granite  church  is  a  granite  constitution, 
and  the  light  of  health  and  sanity  and 
cheerful  industry  in  the  eye  of  an  Irish  lad 
is  better  than  the  light  of  a  thousand 
candles. 

This  is  not  a  question  of  religion,  but  of 


174  JUST  IRISH 

common  sense.  If  all  the  money  that  has 
been  spent  upon  the  extra  embellishment 
of  churches  of  all  denominations  in  Ire- 
land had  been  spent  on  the  physical  and 
educational  and  moral  betterment  of  Irish- 
men, they  would  have  ceased  to  emigrate 
long  since. 

But  this  is  thin  ice,  and  as  I  canVswim 
I'll  give  up  the  skating  on  it  until  the 
weather  is  colder. 

But  the  priests  are  also  interested  in 
this  Gaelic  revival  of  which  Americans 
have  already  heard  so  much,  and  which  is 
non-sectarian  and  non-political.  And 
the  nuns  are  doing  a  blessed  work  all  over 
Ireland. 

Let  me  close  this  somewhat  serious 
chapter  —  one  can't  help  being  serious  in 
Ireland  when  he  sees  that  her  regenera- 
tion is  at  hand  —  with  a  parable  that  I 
made  all  by  my  lonesome: 

Once  there  was  a  man  who  had  a  sugar 
maple,  and  there  being  a  demand  for 
maple  sugar  he  allowed  the  sap  to  run 


r 


GONE  TO  AMERICA 


"f       I 


JUST  IRISH  175 

early  and  late,  and  disposed  of  the  sugar 
thus  obtained.  But  there  came  by  a  man 
who  said : 

"Why,  you're  ruining  that  tree.  The 
sap  that  is  being  made  into  sugar  for  the 
whole  United  States  is  the  life  blood  of  that 
green  old  tree.  If  you  keep  on,  your  tree 
will  wither  and  die." 

And  the  man  took  the  advice  and  the 
tree  renewed  its  youth. 

Close  up  the  sap  holes  and  keep  in  the 
sap,  for  the  sap  is  the  life  blood  of  Ireland, 
and  we  in  America  have  learned  how  to 
make  sugar  out  of  many  things  —  even 
out  of  beets  —  and  we  no  longer  need  the 
Irish  young  man.  But  the  old  tree  needs 
her  young  blood  in  order  to  keep  her 
fresh  and  green. 


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